


Lady of the Cliffs

by goldbooksblack



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Rating will remain T for most of the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-01-26 12:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 94,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12557864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldbooksblack/pseuds/goldbooksblack
Summary: She grows up the eldest daughter of two of the richest nobles in the land. As a female, she is expected to marry a male of equal or higher standing, produce offspring, and please society. But as an unforeseen war looms on the horizon, and a chance encounter threatens to upend her world, she is no longer sure of what her future entails.Or, what the Lady of Wise Things was like before she became one of the most feared gods in the land.**Unfortunately, italics are not working on mobile. Reading on desktop (or on myTumblr) is the best way to ensure that they show up. Sorry for the inconvenience!





	1. Cast of Characters

**Author's Note:**

> Pronunciation Guide: 
> 
> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (Kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Huxley (Hux-LEE)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)

 

_ **Immortals** _

**Cliffs of Iseult**

**The Leander**

Anneith _(the eldest daughter of Malvolia and Ubel; older sister of Caitriona)_

Caitriona _(the younger daughter of Malvolia and Ubel; younger sister of_

_Anneith)_

Malvolia _(wife of Ubel; mother of Anneith and Caitriona)_

Ubel _(husband of Malvolia; father of Anneith and Caitriona)_

Caoimhe _(attendant to Anneith and Caitriona)_

 

**Neighboring Estates**

Huxley _(Anneith’s suitor)_

Ealga _(one of Malvolia’s afternoon tea group)_

Glain _(one of Malvolia’s afternoon tea group)_

Aislin _(only daugher of Glain; Anneith’s friend)_

Aurus _(one of Malvolia’s afternoon tea group)_

 

**The Flatlands**

 

Edryd _(one of Anneith’s suitors)_

Bronwen _(Edryd’s mother; wife of Tudur)_

Tudur _(Edryd’s father; husband of Bronwen)_

Graehem _(one of Anneith’s suitors)_

Osla _(Graehem’s mother; wife of Neils)_

Neils _(Graehem’s father; husband of Osla)_

Deacon _(one of Anneith’s suitors)_

 

**Plains of Astrea**

Macha _(wealthy lady; Anneith’s distant aunt)_

 

**Bay of Diarmuid**

Aengus _(young lord of a local manor)_

_Jaimes _(one of Anneith’s suitors)_ _

 

_ **Gods** _

Hellas _(god of the Underworld)_

Lani _(goddess of dreams)_

Lumas _(Lord of the Gods, god of love)_

Silba _(goddess of healing)_


	2. One

_**Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.** _

_**-Edgar Allan Poe** _

 

**Part I: Deep Into That Darkness Peering**

 

She wondered if anyone else could see exactly what her sister was doing.

Caitriona was dancing, showing off, in the middle of her horde of friends, arms in the air, squealing. It was the night of her eighteenth birthday, and since their parents were visiting other relatives in the Flatlands, Caitriona had taken it upon herself to throw the largest, most lavish party the Leander had seen. Much less the Cliffs of Iseult.

Which meant that Anneith had to stay in the corner, fending off half-drunk males and attempting not to sulk.

Silently, she cursed her sister’s thoroughness. Caitriona hadn’t missed a detail of the planning process; The normally ivory curtains had been replaced with gold drapes, small silver accent tables laden with food lined the walls—and a boundary spell kept Anneith from entering the house proper, trapping her in the east wing and slightly beyond.

The younger of the two sisters had always been particularly (unfairly, Anneith thought) skilled with concrete magic. Her parents always had something proud to say about Caitriona. And nothing to say about their eldest.

Anneith swirled the effervescent alcohol around in its flute. Despite the fact that it was quickly approaching midnight, the party had not indication of coming to a close.

“Anneith!” A slurred voice came from her left, and she turned to see Lord Huxley stumbling over to her. “You . . . you look _beautiful_.”

She resisted the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes, and instead replied politely, “Hello, Lord Huxley. How are you?”

Huxley was most definitely inebriated. He stood haphazardly on his feet, swaying side to side. “I’m good.”

Anneith wished, desperately, that she had some sort of shawl that she could pull over herself, if to prevent Huxley from gawking at her breasts. But, as she was wont to do, Caitriona had tossed her into the dressing room and given strict instructions to Caoimhe, their attendant, to ignore Anneith’s pleads to wear something more modest.

Caoimhe had almost looked like she felt bad for her. Almost.

The neckline of her midnight-blue gown dipped drastically into the valley of her breasts; thankfully, the meager sleeves that she had (really just strips of fabric tied to the bodice) managed to hoist the entire dress up, preventing her from being humiliated at her sheer lack of a bust. The neckline curved outwards, like the wings of a dove in midair; the point of the vee was simply too low for Anneith’s taste. Not to mention that fact that Caitriona had spared her no pity and instructed the dressmaker to craft the gown so that the vee of the back dipped more than halfway down, exposing quite an amount of her nude back.

The whispering gossip had been suffocating as Anneith entered the room at the start of the night, cheeks stained red. And the cursed gown hadn’t been doing her any favors since. Exhibit A: Lord Huxley.

He attempted to throw an arm around her. “How—how’s about we go back to my manor and I—” burp “—show you around?”

Anneith resisted a shudder. “No,” she said, her voice as kind as she could make it. “I’m afraid I have other business to attend to after this.”

_Like keeping my dignity intact._

“Oh, loosen up,” Huxley made a move to encircle her waist with his arm, which she swiftly sidestepped. “Don’t you want to have some fun before you get married off?”

She felt her cheeks get hot. The bastard. He was probably aware that his own family was currently in the running for the hand of the eldest daughter of Lady Malvolia and Lord Ubel. Along with about two other families. Her mother had called it a pitiful outcome. Malvolia, who had about fifty families lining up in front of her father’s house the day she turned eighteen.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite agree with your definition of _fun_ , Lord Huxley.”

He rolled his eyes and whined, “you were always such a prude, Anneith.” He reached a hand out as if to grab her arm. She sidestepped him. It was remarkable how small she could feel, in a room full of powerful immortals.

an entire year. An entire year she had somehow managed to keep her suitors—and parents—at bay. A year too long, whispered the derisive gossips around her. Any good daughter would have been married off by now.

In some ways, Anneith understood the expectation. Immortals had difficulty conceiving, and like all species, the females couldn’t sustain the necessary life materials for children throughout their entire lifespan. Males could. Therefore it made more sense for females to receive more pressure to couple rather than males. But with a life expectancy of more than a few centuries, how much of a hurry were they truly in?

Anneith spotted her chance when a waiter came drifting over, carrying a plate full of glasses filled to the brim with golden alcohol. Casually moving as if to ask for a refill, her arm slipped just below the waiter’s palm, slamming against his wrist. With a frightened cry, the waiter dropped the entire plate—onto Huxley’s chest. The young lord jumped back, letting loose a roar. “How dare you?”

“I—I am so sorry, my lord, I—" the waiter was already stammering out an apology, and, as if realizing that it was, perhaps, not entirely his fault, looked around for the lady in the dark gown that had stood beside him, watching the entire fiasco.

 

~*~

 

Anneith made her way furiously through the garden, not caring whether or not she was trampling her mother’s prized flowers in her wake. Her cheeks were hot, stained scarlet with both shame and anger. How dare he? She fumed silently. Her five-inch heels (another one of Caitriona’s torturous demands) sunk into the dirt, which had been softened by a rainstorm two nights previous.

She heard a distant squeal, and then rustling, Two voices arose from some bushes a few yards away from her, matched to two dark figures that stood up suddenly. Although they were so closely intertwined that Anneith could barely make out their individual bodies. She held back a loud sigh of disgust, and considered telling them that her father’s prize hound often favored the patch of grass they had been rolling in as a spot for releasing his waste.

She trampled on, and the couple’s ruckus disappeared into the distance as she made her way across the field and towards the bright moon, which hung above the edge of the cliff.

Her family’s manor, Leander, was built near the edge of the largest of the Cliffs of Iseult, Margh. In fact, it was the only home built directly on the cliff; they had no neighbors for more than a mile. Her father claimed that it was because only they had the courage to venture so far out. Anneith thought it was because some idiotic ancestor had decided to see how far they could go before the cliff was inevitably sheared by some natural disaster and the entire family drowned in the sea below.

Now she was _definitely_ trampling some of her mother’s plants. Her anger was too great for her to feel sorry; she derived pleasure from the squishy feel of petals underneath her heel. _Damn these flowers. Damn her mother. Damn this dress and these heels. Damn her sister. Damn everyone in the world to—_

“Ah!”

One of the most prominent features of Lady Malvolia’s garden was a massive, overgrown weeping willow. In fact, it wasn’t really a part of Malvolia’s garden. Rather, it had been a sort of symbol of Ubel’s family—the same idiotic family that had built Leander. Evidently they had also failed to realize that after centuries of growing, the weeping willow would eventually invade the rest of the yard—its floppy branches would become longer, its leaves would droop close to the ground, and most irritatingly of all—its roots were beginning to surface above ground, yards away from the tree. Through what freak magic, Anneith had no idea.

It was one of these unearthed roots that Anneith caught her foot in and tripped on her face. But the mouthful of dirt wasn’t what made her scream.

It was the rose briar that she had landed straight into.

 

~*~

 

She could feel the thorns scratching, piercing her skin—her arms as she struggled to move, her exposed upper torso, her hands as she tried to prop herself up. She already felt the blood smearing across her skin. Above, the moon taunted her, as if daring her to keep advancing towards the edge.

Malvolia favored roses over any other flower, and cultivated them wildly all around the garden, claiming that it “added vitality” to the other plants. She was famously known for firing a gardener who dared to trim the briars “too far” for her taste.

Anneith let out another strained cry as she tried to rise—and failed. The people of the party were too far away to even hear her cries. Guessing blindly at where the ground was, she sunk her hand down—and caught it on a thorn. She let out a scream, cursing as tears ran down her cheeks. Her heels had been kicked off somewhere behind her, leaving her feet at the mercy of the dirt and thorns.

There was no end to her torment in sight.

Briefly, she wondered whether or not her wounds were enough to make her bleed to death. But before she could fully entertain the idea, a deep voice behind her spoke. “Those are some nasty thorns you’ve landed yourself into.”

Anneith had barely registered the voice before someone’s arms had slipped underneath her own arms and lifted her up. She winced as some of the thorns slipped out of her skin, and felt slightly ill as she looked down at the briar—although it was too dark and the roses were too red for her to discern how much blood she had lost. She stood shakily on her legs, dizzy as she took sight of her scarlet stained arms and torn dress.

“Are you alright?”

Anneith looked up at the stranger for the first time.

And resisted the urge to scream.

The blood, the pain, faded away as she recognized who it was that had prevented her from impaling herself.

The elegant, picturesque features: angular face, dark eyes, midnight hair. She could feel the power oozing off of him, the undeniable rawness of it all. It was power like she had never felt before. Sheer, undiluted magic, completely his and not his at the same time. It wrapped around the two of them like a blanket, and she could have sworn the night became darker as she slowly, slowly, continued to take him in.

For it was Hellas, god of the Underworld, that had found her.

 

~*~

 

She stammered out, “Your majesty!”

It was not everyday that one encountered a god, much less the god of the Underworld. She had no idea how to address someone like him. If she had to choose between facing Hellas and the rose briar, she would have happily taken the rose briar.

Hellas raised a dark eyebrow. “There’s no need for such formalities. What’s your name?”

“A-Anneith.”

Recognition lit up his eyes slightly. “Anneith? As in the Lady Anneith? So you live here, then?”

“Y-yes.”

He let an analyzing gaze sweep over her. She had never felt so bare, so vulnerable before. Finally, he nodded at her. “Let me take care of those.”

“Wh—” Before she could react, a hot sensation—almost like burning—enveloped her full body.

She looked down. She could feel the magic rolling off of the god in front of her, and, mesmerized, she watched as her wounds began to close. Blood stopped pouring out. When the warmth stopped, she dared to glance up at Hellas. He was . . . smirking at her, a half-smile curling the edges of his lips. “There,” he said smoothly. “You’re all set, I suppose. Although I’m not quite sure you’ll be able to get rid of some of those scars. At least, not from me. You’ll have to visit a healer for that.”

She nodded mutely. Numbly. And dipped her head in a sign of gratitude. “Thank you, my lord.” And before she could lose the sudden rush that flooded her chest, she plowed on. “I apologize, but I’m afraid I have to get back. I believe my sister is looking for me.”

Hellas’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Anneith’s heart palpitated. It wasn’t a downright lie; Caitriona could be searching for her. But if he detected even one hint of doubt . . .

The Lord of Death waved a hand. “Have a good night, Lady Anneith. Wish your sister a happy eighteenth for me.”

“Thank—Thank you for everything.”

He gave her that mysterious, half-developed smile.

Anneith took it as a cue to leave, and hauled ass through the garden until she reached the lit ballroom.

 

~*~

 

Surprisingly, only a quarter of the guests were still there; many were taking their leave, wishing Caitriona a happy birthday as they waved themselves off and exited through the grand double doors. Her younger sister beamed at the attention, although the energy Anneith had felt lighting up the room felt slightly depleted.

Smoothing the front of her dress down, Anneith waited until the last guest had walked out before re-entering the house. The ballroom was a mess; there were shards of what must have been flutes strewn everywhere, scraps of food had fallen, and a mysterious puddle lay dead center on the ivory floor.

As the servants busied themselves with cleaning up, Caitriona sank into a nearby armchair (that the sisters had collectively agreed to call “the drunk chair”), rubbing her face with her palms. Even after a night of partying, Caitriona still looked as pristine as she had been at the start of the evening. Not a single curl was out of place in her elaborate coiffure, and her beautiful dress was still intact. Unlike Anneith’s.

Caitriona perked up at the sight of her older sister. “Anneith! I thought you had wandered off somewhere! Where—” she stopped short, eyes wide. Vaguely, Anneith realized that although Hellas had healed her, the bloodstains covering her skin were still very, very fresh and very, very, scarlet. Caitriona practically leapt out of the drunk chair. “Where the hell were you?”

Anneith held back a wince at the invocation of the realm of the very god she had privately sworn to forget. “I got . . . held up in the garden.”

“What did you do, fight a lion? Or some hundred-toothed monster?”

“Close. One of the rose briars in the back.”

“Which one? The iron maiden or the guillotine?”

“Neither? I think?”

Caitriona groaned, cursing. “Mother has an invasive new briar? How surprising.” She eyed the still-closing wounds on her older sister’s skin. “Do you need me to fix those for you?”

Anneith touched a finger to on of the gashes on her arm, wincing quietly as the pain failed her test. “Yes, please.”

Her sister gently examined her skin, wrapping her fingers around her wrists and sending a wave of warmth running up her arms. So different, her sister was, from the dark god who had been with her in the garden.

No. It was better not to think about the whole ordeal. Not when she was still trembling at the memory. 

“Caitriona, I think that’s enough. I’m alright, really.”

Caitriona raised an eyebrow. “You’re bleeding from every single limb. I’ve never seen this much blood on anyone, much less you, who rarely ventures out into the real world.” She pushed Anneith down into the drunk chair, kneeling in front of her so she could better examine her legs.

Anneith rolled her eyes. “Immortal, remember?”

“Immortal doesn’t mean invincible, dear sister. You could still bleed to death.”

Scowling (Caitriona smirked, knowing she had won), Anneith quickly changed the topic as she sank back into the drunk chair, legs propped up on her sister’s knees. “I didn’t see you drinking much tonight.”

“You don’t need alcohol to have fun, dear sister. Uncross your knees for me.”

Obeying, Anneith went on. “And _did_ you have fun tonight?”

“It was . . . fine. Nothing was particularly interesting.”

“Not even pretty Paedar?”

“Paedar is as boring as a rock.”

“That’s not what you thought last week.”

“Last week I barely knew Paedar. Now I do. And he’s as boring as a rock.”

“What experienced judgements you make, Lady Caitriona."

Her younger sister performed a mock curtsy, setting Anneith’s leg gently to the ground. “Why thank you, Lady Anneith.”

Helping her up, the two sisters made their way out of the ballroom and back into the house proper, traversing up the stairs and to their rooms.

(“I see you lifted the wards.” Anneith’s words were underscored with passively-disguised bitterness.

“I just didn’t think it would be fair to keep you in the ballroom for the rest of your life. It gets cold in the winter.”)

Both of the sisters’ rooms were located in the east wing of their gargantuan manor, although Anneith’s was at the end of the wing, closer to the library, and Caitriona’s was at the other end of the wing, close to the third-floor landing. But, on one of her zealous investigations of the house, a nine-year old Caitriona had discovered that their rooms were linked by an underground passage. Anneith had found the whole thing absolutely cliche; Caitriona had found it magical.

“It’s just a tunnel. Plenty of houses have the same thing.” Even at eleven, Anneith had been a stark realist.

“But not one in a house as big as ours!” Caitriona hopped from one foot to the other.

“We could play so many games!”

(The prospect of more elaborate games of hide-and-seek had never come to fruition, however.)

 

~*~

 

“So you said that you were out in the garden?” Caitriona had thrown herself across Anneith’s bed. “What were you even looking for?”

Anneith, in the middle of changing into her nightgown, threw her undershirt at her sister, who caught it easily with one hand, smirking. “Peace and quiet. You locked me out of the house, bitch.”

“ _Bitch?_ Good gods, you really have matured.”

“Shut up.”

“So what was your plan? Traipse through the garden, trample all the plants, sit on the edge of the cliff and mope?”

“It would have been preferable to being at your party.”

Caitriona put one hand over her heart in a display of mock hurt. “My, my, what cutting words you have this evening. My party wasn’t so bad.”

“I saw Lord Ruari’s son trip into a table.”

“Oh, Aeron? He’s a very nice boy, you know. And in search of a wife.” She stretched out the ‘i’ for several seconds before Anneith scowled in response. “I’m just suggesting! Besides, he would be preferable to disgusting Huxley.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” murmured Anneith.

“I saw him try to talk you up at the party.”

“And you didn’t come to my defense? My 'cutting' words seem a little _too_ justified right now.”

“You had it squared before I could even make an excuse to leave. How did you even do that?”

Anneith finally lay down on the bed next to her sister. “I pushed a waiter into him.”

There was silence, then Caitriona burst into laughter, body and bed shaking along with her. Even Anneith couldn’t resist her charm, cracking a small smile.

“I would have paid good money to see that,” hooted Caitriona. “What was his expression like?”

“Oh, you know, the—” Anneith screwed up her face in an exaggeration of Huxley’s long face. Caitriona gasped for air between cries of delight, and for a moment, for a moment—

Anneith was lost in her little sister’s delight, engrossed in her blue-gray eyes, mouth open wide. Anneith was young again, left to her own devices, not stuffed into grand dresses with tight bodices and over-puffed skirts. She was young and curled up in a chair next to her sister—no, she was young and tumbling on the lawn with her sister, no responsibilities in sight. No overarching worries of marriage prospects on the mind.

And so she stayed in that moment, for a moment, for a moment, until Caitriona’s wheezes subsided, and the room quieted, and the sisters bid each other good night, and the room returned to its darkness.


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (By the way, I am not Irish or Welsh, so these pronunciations might be off. If any of you know a more accurate spelling of the pronunciations, feel free to tell me!)
> 
> Pronunciation Guide:
> 
> NAMES:  
> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (Kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Huxley (Hux-LEE)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Celyn (KELL-in)  
> Alun (AL-in)  
> Ealga (ale-GA)  
> Eoghan (OW-en)  
> Gethen (GEH-than)  
> Aurus (aww-RUS)  
> Glain (gl-AYY-n)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)  
> Caru (CAH-ru)  
> Braith (bray-TH)
> 
>  
> 
> OTHERS:  
> Samhain (SOW-en)

 

It didn’t escape Anneith’s notice that Caitriona had become more subdued after her birthday, and it made her heart ache to realize that Caitriona was now an adult. And with that adulthood came all sorts of trials that childhood did not prepare one for.

Before long, the comfortable atmosphere of Leander faded away, and the sisters waited on the front walkway for the return of the lord and lady of the house. Anneith would have rolled her eyes as her parent’s ostentatious carriage rolled into view if Caoimhe hadn’t noticed her disgust and given her a subtle pinch to the waist as a reminder to behave.

Ubel and Malvolia could have winnowed back to the manor without much difficulty, if they wanted. In fact, most of the immortals who could afford to routinely utilize opulent carriages like Anneith’s parents could also winnow back to their home from the opposite side of the island. But most chose to display their wealth and status through large, deformed orbs powered by their own magic. The same amount of magic that would have been used if they decided to winnow. And it would have cut down their travel time by three days.

It was with these bitter thoughts that Anneith was forced to confront her parents.

Despite three whole weeks in the sun, Malvolia had not tanned. At all. In fact, she very much doubted that her mother had let herself stay outside for more than half an hour before declaring it that it was much too hot for her “sensitive skin.” She could picture it now, her mother squawking at some poor attendant to fetch her an oversized parasol. Malvolia’s puffy dress was gathered tightly at her waist, ballooning below it. Her face, done up with makeup, was flawless, as always.

Her father was the same. He had tanned gently, a darker shade than Anneith had last seen him. But, like his wife, he was dressed impeccably, in a black suit. His assessing eyes roamed the collection of servants standing in front of Leander, before finally landing on his daughters, standing at the front.

“Caitriona!” Malvolia headed directly towards her younger daughter, tittering. “Happy eighteenth, dear. We brought you something on our way back!”

_I bet it’s an elk hat._

Anneith bit back a smile as her sister’s voice sounded in her head.

_No._

_No?_

_Elk isn’t in fashion anymore._

_Oh, thank the gods._

_It’s more likely to be a skunk hat._

_Shit._

_Well, it’ll smell like that too._

She caught her sister’s grimace out of the corner of her eye as her mother did, indeed, pull out a skunk hat.

“Oh, and Anneith.” Anneith’s stomach dropped as her mother turned towards her. She offered Malvolia a small, tight smile. She raised an eyebrow, blue eyes raking up and down her eldest. “Have you gained weight? You look . . . sweaty.”

Anneith’s face burned. “Perhaps.”

Malvolia tsked. “Well, watch your figure. You’ll fatten up easily, you know.”

“Anneith,” Ubel interrupted. She turned to find her father’s stare boring into her. “I’d like to see you in the sitting room when we head in.”

She inclined her head. “Yes, Father.”

“Who wants afternoon tea?” Caitriona cried, and Anneith could have worshipped her sister for her interjection.

Malvolia murmured her assent, and the family of four walked into the manor, their train of servants behind them.

 

~*~

 

Unfortunately for Anneith, Malvolia tugged Caitriona away into the secondary dining room, leaving Anneith alone with Ubel in the foyer. She had no choice but to follow her father into the sitting room.

The sitting room was dark and gloomy. It was typically reserved for her father’s business dealings with other lords, and utilized either early in the morning or at noon. But at late afternoon tea time, the sun had fallen too far from the zenith to light up the room.

Anneith shifted uncomfortably in a velvet armchair as she watched her father light candles around them. Her sister’s mental channel was still very much open, and she could feel Caitriona’s impatience with their mother bleeding through to her side.

At last, Ubel sat down in the armchair opposing hers. Anneith fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, which was already fraying. But looking anywhere else was better than directly at Ubel.

There was an aura about Ubel, an enigma around him. No one knew who he really was. No one could predict what he would be like. One day he would rage at everyone and everything around him. One particularly nasty day, he had sent almost half the staff packing for a broken dish in the kitchen. Other days he would come home with heaping piles of gifts for his family.

Anneith didn’t know which Ubel she faced now: the harsh master or the generous father.

At last, he sat down.

“Lord Celyn’s daughter was engaged last week,” he said casually, taking a sip from a nearby teacup.

“Oh?”

“To the young Lord Alun.”

“Oh.”

“Now, Anneith,” he began, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sat. “You’re nineteen now.”

Great Goddess save her. It was exactly this type of conversation she had hoped to avoid.

“It’s time we declare your intentions.”

“My _—_ my intentions?”

“Your intentions to wed, of course.”

She felt dizzy. “To _—_ to wed?”

He waved an impatient hand. “Of course, to wed. What else would it be? Of course, your mother and I have made it abundantly clear that you are, shall we say, _on the market_ , but seeing as only two families have even approached us with an offer for your hand, it has become evident that we needs to . . . expedite the process.”

She said nothing. She had been expecting and dreading this for weeks. But to hear Ubel say the exact words she had been fearing, to act the exact way she had been imagining for months, made her heart palpitate.

“Of course, we still have to work out some minor issues, but we should have some suitors at the ready by next Samhain.”

Next Samhain. Next Samhain. It would still be another eleven months to go before the next Samhain. Anneith forced herself to slow her breathing. She had time. She had time.

She had . . . choices.

She could be a dutiful daughter and marry whomever her parents chose. She could see it now, herself in a demure dress, daintily taking afternoon tea with her peers, giggling at some mundane gossip about Lady so-and-so and the prices of soap in town.

She could beat her parents to the punch and choose her own suitor, for herself. Before the pool narrowed too much. She could choose a nice, respectable boy, someone who would treat her fairly, someone who wouldn’t force her to be a demure wife all the time. Someone who was good enough to see her as more than a prize, the daughter of the richest lord in the region.

She could become a priestess. Not all priestesses were celibate. Strike that, nearly no priestesses were celibate. But entering the temple would certainly make it harder for her parents to exert control over her. Then again _—_ to live her life, forever dedicated to the gods, putting them above her own life . . .

She could run away. Get off this cursed island, get away from her life. The only problem with that plan? Her parents were not inconspicuous people. They were among the richest of the richest nobility on the Divine Island. They would find her and bring her back if she was anywhere on the island. And as for leaving it . . . they didn’t call it “The Endless Sea” for nothing.

Anneith sank back into her armchair, watching her father’s lips move without comprehending any of his words.

 

~*~

 

Caitriona popped up above the floor just before midnight. “Hello!”

Anneith looked wearily up from her novel. Usually one of her favorites, it had become unreadable in the aftermath of the fiasco that had been her sitting room interrogation. “You need something?”

Caitriona’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she opted to use her arms to hoist herself above the floor in a manner that Malvolia would surely describe as “unladylike” and “heathenish” instead of taking the remaining steps up to the surface. “Why are you moping?”

Anneith shut her book with a loud thud. “I’m not.”

Caitriona seated herself on the rug. “Yes, you are. And you look absolutely comical when you do.”

“Why are you even here?” Anneith snapped. “Don’t you have better things to do? Like go out and party? Drink yourself to sleep? Launch yourself into some stranger’s bed?” Her head was pounding mercilessly, but the speed of her words was uncontrollable.

Caitriona was visibly shocked, her eyes large. “Oh. Uh. I suppose the conversation with Father didn’t go well, then?”

Anneith tossed the book on her bedside table and burrowed underneath her covers. “To say the least. Go to sleep.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“You know, just because you’re in a nasty mood doesn’t mean you have to lord it over everyone else like a fucking storm cloud. Other people are allowed to be alright. _Happy_ , even. Even when you aren’t.”

When Anneith didn’t respond, Caitriona huffed. She didn’t dare turn around, but she heard the slow shuffling of feet and the slamming of a trapdoor.

Her breaths came fast and hard, and she buried her face in her pillow, fighting against the stream of tears that soaked the casing. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Stupid for thinking that avoiding all of her suitors would make them disappear. Stupid for thinking that her parents’ trip to the Flatlands wouldn’t involve some sort of matchmaking for their daughters. Stupid for lashing out at Caitriona, the only one who understood her.

Her tears dripped down her face as she finally rolled over onto her backside. She let the salty drops run off of her face, and with each sniffle, she felt her chest constrict.

_You are the cause of all of your family’s problems. No wonder your parents hate you. The sooner you marry and become less of a burden the better._

She laid there, in the darkness, heart squeezing, lungs burning, until Lani claimed her for her own.  


~*~  


“Oh, Lady Anneith, what an . . . eclectic taste in fashion you have!”

Anneith stifled an eye roll and forced herself to smile sweetly at Lady Ealga. “I suppose so.” She feigned interest in Ealga’s own gown, shimmery and pale blue. “I do adore your dress. Where did you get it? At Eoghan’s Shop, surely?”

Lady Ealga’s ears reddened lightly.

Although he was a fine dressmaker, Eoghan was known primarily for other things. Like frequenting the local tavern. And becoming involved in very popular tales of town debauchery. Aristocratic women had long turned up their noses at him in public, although many still sent their plainest servants out just before dawn to pick up their orders.

“Now, Ealga, surely you’d like a biscuit?” Malvolia’s forced, saccharine smile couldn’t mask the burning glare she had directed at her daughter.

Every third day of the week, without fail, Malvolia held afternoon tea in the drawing room. And, every third day of the week since she had come of age, Anneith had joined her. Unwillingly. She certainly had no interest in participating in gossip of who had eloped with who and what was in fashion and what was not.

Caoimhe entered the room, bearing another tiered cake stand. As she passed, Anneith caught her eye, shooting her a pleading look. The servant merely gave her a sympathetic look in return as she curtsied to Malvolia and exited. Anneith slumped in her chair.

“Malvolia, did you hear about Lord Gethen’s son?” Lady Aurus leaned forward, a look on her face that Anneith could only describe as hungry. Out of all of them, Lady Aurus was the only one who could truly match Malvolia.

The daughter of two immortals who had been the wealthiest in the land before their deaths, she had been highly sought after once she came of age. Her first husband, an immortal who had been three hundred years older than her, died of mysterious circumstances two months after their wedding. A supposed adorer of his bride, he had left all of his fortune to her. Aurus, however, had wasted no time in remarrying, this time to a lord from Bay of Mare, well-known for his stake in the shipping industry. This husband, too, had died under unclear conditions. And left all of his money to his beautiful wife. The scenario repeated itself. Three more times.

Aurus, then eighteen, now nearly the same age as her first husband had been before he died, was never investigated for the deaths. Here she remained, in the upper echelons of society, drinking tea made from the most expensive plants of the Mountains of Melisande. She was as beautiful as she had been, two hundred and eighty odd years ago. Golden hair braided back into an elegant knot, cheekbones blooming with natural rouge, a gentle sheen to her skin—it wasn’t hard to see why she had been widowed five times without anyone’s serious suspicion.

Malvolia set her teacup down on her saucer. “No, I didn’t. What happened?”

Aurus smirked. “Gethen’s son got it into that pretty head of his that it would be a good idea to play around with one of the scullery maids in the kitchen. A tryst here, a dabble there, and she’s with child.”

Lady Glain, seated to Anneith’s left, gasped dramatically, dark locks bouncing. “But Gethen would never—what became of his son, then?”

Aurus shrugged, casually devouring a finger sandwich—aware that as long as her audience was captivated, she could keep them waiting. “He took off into the night. Snuck into the barracks, took his whore and ran. Come morning, all of Gethen’s agreements to wed his son with Lord Griffith’s daughter are broken, his family ruined.”

Ealga clutches at her chest. “To think of the horror! Why, if _my_ son—”

 _Your son is brought home drunk off of his ass five out of seven days of the week,_ Anneith resisted saying.

“I know, I know,” Aurus leaned towards the quivering female. “Don’t we all worry about the children?”

Malvolia stiffened beside Anneith. She recalled her mother ranting once, “For a woman like her who has _no children_ , she seems to think that she’s the _quintessential mother._ ”

“Insolent child,” Malvolia declared loftily. “Wasting all that his parents gave him.”

Anneith buried her face into her teacup.

“What can we do, anyway?” Lady Glain murmured sympathetically. “Children will be children.”

“Mother!” The stout figure of one Lady Aislin burst into the room. Malvolia’s jaw tightened, but she smiled politely at the young female, as did the rest of the ladies.

Glain looked up at her daughter. “What is it, Aislin?”

Aislin, the same age as Anneith, was a soft beauty. She was curved in places that were _meant_ to be curved, with a healthy plumpness to her. Her dark skin glowed with an ethereal sheen. She and Aislin had been friends since childhood, although the latter didn't visit often due to her frequent vacations all around the island, usually to study.

Another thing that Anneith envied about her.

Aislin blinked, the small movement only rendering her more beautiful. “Father’s home.”

“Really?” Glain exclaimed, the joy evident in her voice. “I do apologize, Malvolia—” the lady rested a hand on Malvolia’s shoulder as she jumped up. “—but we have to go. It's been quite a while since my husband has been home. We're all very eager to see him.”

“That's _quite_ alright, Glain.” Malvolia replied, an almost imperceptible sneer lining her voice. At any rate, Glain didn't seem to detect it, linking her arm through her daughter’s.

As they walked out, Aislin shot a pitying look at Anneith. Anneith responded with a glance of her own. _I know_.

“Now, where were we?” Asked Malvolia briskly, taking a perfunctory sip.

“Lord Gethen—and his horrid situation, I absolutely pity the man, what a waste . . .” Ealga blabbered on cheerfully.

Containing a sigh, Anneith let her head fall a little, counting down the minutes until the meeting would adjourn

 

~*~

  


“So how was it? Did they talk about Caru?” Caitriona lounged in one of Anneith’s plush armchairs.

They still hadn’t talked about the incident a few days ago. In fact, Caitriona seemed content to forget it altogether. Anneith, however, pulled her words back, choosing them carefully. Walking on eggshells.

She raised an eyebrow. “You knew him?”

Caitriona seemed to mull over the question. “Well . . . yes. In a way.”

“You slept with him?”

“Mm. It was bit more complicated than that. He was my first.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Caitriona let out a long sigh. “He’s not much older than us, you know. Twenty, probably on the cusp of twenty-one. Braith introduced us. He was sweet, and kind, and we got to talking.”

“And then the two of you decided to fuck,” said Anneith dryly.

Caitriona rolled her eyes. “There was a _lot more talking_ before the fucking. I was sixteen! Romance was paramount! Anyway—we kept in touch for about a year. Then, when Braith and I went into town a while later, we happened to bump into him and his group of friends. You know how impulsive Braith can be—thanks to her, we ended up in a tavern for the entire night, and at a quarter to eleven, everyone besides Caru and I was completely drunk out of their minds. Caru suggested that we go somewhere quieter, and I agreed.”

“And _then_ you two decided to fuck.”

“No! Gods, what is wrong with you? Let me reiterate. I was _sixteen_ ! I don’t even think I knew the word ‘fuck’. Caru and I just ended up in one of the rooms above the tavern, one thing led to another, and _yes,_ that was when we _fucked._ ” She dragged out the “u,” staring at Anneith, eyebrow raised.

Anneith threw herself down on her bed, propping her chin up with her palm. “So what happened afterwards?”

“Afterwards?” Caitriona pondered the question. “Well, we woke up. Obviously. And realized what had happened. I think that he was just a little bit mortified, that he was eighteen and technically a grown male and that he had slept with a teenager. But he was gracious, and we did the walk of shame together. All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a better experience.”

“How . .  . how was . . .”

Her sister smirked. “Oh, so you can say ‘fuck’ but you can’t ask me if he was good in bed or not?”

Anneith threw a pillow at her. “Oh, shut up.”

Caitriona caught the pillow easily, hugging it to her chest as she thought. “He was . . . frankly, amazing. It wasn’t that he had a huge cock or that he was particularly good at kissing. I mean, he did and he was, but . . . it was mainly that he took the time to make sure I was comfortable. I’ve had a lot of bedmates who are maybe quite a bit larger than him, but less than half the honorable male he was.” She stayed quiet for a moment. “Sometimes . . . sometimes I think he might have been my first love.”

Gods, Anneith couldn’t even imagine what that kind of romantic love could even feel like. “I’m glad it was good.”

“Me too. And I’m happy that he’s found someone he loves.”

“So he loves her then? The maid?”

“Without a doubt. I went to go visit him—in that cafe he likes so much in town—and he was there with his female. They were adorable. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen two people more in love.”

“Huh.”

“But I honestly don’t know where they’re going to go. There’s nowhere on this island that will shield them completely from his family. And Lord Griffith is unlikely to take this lying down.”

“So you think that they’ll go after them, then?”

“Perhaps.”

The sisters fell into silence, as the sky began to lighten, and the sun rose above the cliffs outside.

 

~*~

 

Saturdays were the best days.

Every Saturday, her parents paid a trip to the local temples for their routine almsgivings. Every Saturday, the servants did their weekly food shopping in the village. Every Saturday, Caitriona went out with her friends.

None of them returned until dinnertime.

Hours. Six glorious hours in which Anneith could savor her freedom, however limited it was. It was only a short trip from her room, out to the hall of the East Wing, and down a narrow staircase into the library.

The library was a spacious room, almost a floor on its own (it did, however, occupy a tower, with a main floor and a mezzanine), with books stacked from wall to wall on oak bookshelves. There were a few mahogany tables, although not nearly enough as to obscure the view of the marble floor.. The room was painted cream, completing the aesthetic of the floor and the shelves.

Anneith adored every inch of it.

Her parents often lamented how they should have been stricter with her—shouldn’t have let her gone out so often, shouldn’t have let her parade around in the wrong social circles, shouldn’t have let her get so close the scullery maids—shouldn’t have this and shouldn’t have that.

But Anneith often thought that her parent’s biggest mistake was letting her visit the library.

She remembered the first time she entered. She had been about three years old, and Malvolia had wanted to find a gardening book. (These were the glorious days in which roses had not yet been introduced to the gardens of Leander yet.)

Her infant daughter was safely swaddled away in her crib, but her toddler was still very much attached to her mother, and Malvolia had had no choice but to bring Anneith along.

The door had swung open before them, and Malvolia had stepped in. “Stay here,” she instructed her.

Anneith had felt as if she was on the precipice of something magnificent. Something far greater than she had every experienced in her long, grand three years of life. So she nodded blankly and let her eyes wander.

Little leather rectangles, with shiny gold lettering on them—everywhere! Little Anneith didn’t know what they were, but they were exciting. They called to her. So unlike the rest of the house, this section was. So welcoming and warm and nice and comfortable.

And, when neither Malvolia nor Ubel were paying much attention, she would beg her nursemaid to take her to the library, trailing her fingers along the letters on the spines. And later, after her parents deemed her as not requiring any more tutoring, she would teach herself more, making it a goal to read every single book in the library.

She glanced at the shelves now, sixteen years later, and sighted her marker wedged between two books near the bottom of the tenth shelf on the mezzanine level. It had taken her ten years to read every single book. She was on her second round.

Ascending the stairs, Anneith peered at the title she was continuing. It was a romance epic, about a female and her companions as they fought monsters. It wasn’t her favorite, but she wasn’t complaining—she had forced herself to read an almanac from before her father was born for the last three weeks. Anything was better than reading about the growth prospects of crops.

She sank into a nearby armchair, curling her legs onto the cushion.

She was determined to enjoy this. What little time she had left.

 

~*~  


“Do you think that this dress looks good?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not even looking!”

Anneith looked up from her book to find Aislin’s scowling face staring back at her. “There’s no need. You’re flawless in everything you wear.”

“A little input would be nice,” sighed Aislin as she dove back behind the changing curtain.

“You’re the one who dragged me out of the library on the only peaceful day of the week,” grumbled Anneith, quickly changing the subject.

“Well I’m sorry for interrupting your hermit activities, but you need to get out more!”

Sighing, Anneith turned the page, quickly changing the topic. “How’s your father?”

“Oh, he’s well. Tired, but well. Mother can barely contain herself.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yes, I suppose so. How’s your family?”

Anneith thumbed through the pages. “Like always.”

“Mm.” The sympathy was clear in her voice.

Aislin stepped through the curtain again, this time wearing a gown of gold. Two straps connected the bodice to the back of the dress, and exposed her skin similar to an upside-down bell flower. The dress seemed to cling to every curve she had, flaring out only at her hips. The front of her skirt cut off at her knees, while the rest of it flowed behind her in a stunning display of what Anneith could only describe as a waterfall of gold.

Aislin gave a little twirl. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful, Aislin. Really.”

“Really?” Anneith nodded. “I don’t really know if I like this one . . .”

“You’re mental.”

Aislin rolled her eyes. “I’m just stating something!”

“It’s absolutely exquisite.”

Aislin looked down at herself. “I just . . . I don’t think that this is my favorite favorite out of all of them. I mean, I like it, but . . . I’m going to have to go with the gray one.”

The gray one, as lovely as it had been, wasn’t even close to outshining this one. “Alright.”

Aislin threw her coat at her. “Come on. After I change, we’re going to get dessert.”

“I thought you were ‘watching your figure?’”

“I was. Thank your mother by the way.”

“For what?”

“For trying to snidely suggest that I’m fat and I should diet. She made me realize what a stupid idea that is. Cake is the solution to everything.”

 

~*~

 

“Isn’t this nice?” Aislin leaned back in her chair. “Being together, eating cake?”

They were at one of the town’s foremost cafes, located on another one of Iseult’s cliffs—Pelleas. Aislin had chosen a table at the furthest edge of the cafe’s outdoor deck, so that the females could see the sun setting in the distance. Immortals bustled around them, laughing with others and discussing the local gossip.

“It is nice,” agreed Anneith, taking a large bite of her cake. “Gods, I’m famished.”

“All you did was sit in that chair all day and read your book!”

“Yes. And I’m hungry.”

“What chapter are you up to?”

“The part where she and him are sitting under the tree and—”

“—oh!” Aislin clutched at her heart. “I love that part.”

Anneith waved her fork at her. “Do. Not. Say. Anything. I barely remember what happens in the end.”

“I won’t. I’m a better friend than that.”

“Excuse me, ladies?” A waiter had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and Anneith dove for her teacup before it spilled. “Someone at the bar wanted me to pass a message to your table?”

“Oh, look, another admirer note for you, Aislin,” murmured Anneith, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Aislin sighed. “Could you tell him I’m not interested?”

The waiter shifted uncomfortably. “Actually, it’s for you, Lady Anneith.”

“For me?” Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach. It was probably Huxley, or even worse—one of the suitors that her parents had found trying to impress her early.

“Yes. From the male at the bar.”

Slowly, Anneith followed the direction of his finger, and bit back a gasp as she recognized who it was.

“Anneith, are you alright?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I—I—you know what, Aislin, I’m going to go sort this out. I’ll be right back.”

The world seemed to slow down, pausing to watch her get up from her seat, steeling herself.

To face the dark god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment and tell me how you liked it!
> 
> Visit my Tumblr for more: [goldbooksblack](http://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)


	4. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAMES:  
> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (Kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Huxley (Hux-LEE)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Celyn (KELL-in)  
> Alun (AL-in)  
> Ealga (ale-GA)  
> Eoghan (OW-en)  
> Gethen (GEH-than)  
> Aurus (aww-RUS)  
> Glain (gl-AYY-n)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)  
> Caru (CAH-ru)  
> Braith (bray-TH)  
> Tudur (TOO-der)  
> Bronwen (bron-WEN)  
> Edryd (ed-VER-d)
> 
> OTHERS:  
> Samhain (SOW-en)

Anneith barely let herself breathe as she made her way towards the bar. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she felt like regurgitating into her sweaty palms. _What could he possibly want with me?_

Every step towards him felt too quick, too rushed—as if she was moving faster than the world, racing against the clock.

She was beginning to feel light-headed from the air deprivation when she finally stood beside him.

Gods could take any form they wanted. It seemed that Hellas seemed to like the one he had introduced himself to her in, because he looked exactly as he had that night. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand. The other lay flat, but a muscle seemed to twitch as she got closer.

Oh, Great Goddess, she was going to piss herself.

The world went on around them; dimly, she made note of the people passing, clamoring for their meals, waiting on customers. But to her, she and Hellas might as well have been the only beings left in the world, for the two of them was all she truly comprehended.

“Care for a drink?”

She almost missed his words in her distressed revery, and her heart started to overwork itself as it made up for lost time. “I—I, uh, no, that’s alright. I’m—alright. Thank you, um, my lord.”

She could have sworn that the corner of his lips curled. “There’s no need to call me ‘my lord.’”

“Oh. Yes. Of course, m—”

“The lady will have a lime water, please.” He waved the bartender over.

Could they not see who he was? Could they not sense the unbelievable mist of darkness surrounding him, the unshakeable power?

“No, they don’t know,” murmured Hellas quietly.

Anneith jumped.

“I didn’t trespass on your thoughts. Just a lucky guess, I suppose.”

She clutched her glass of water in her hands, trying desperately not to gulp it too quickly. Or too desperately.

“Is that your friend?” He nodded towards Aislin, who was trying very hard not to look interested in their conversation.

“Y—yes, my—”

“—call me Hellas.”

“I—what?”

There it was again, that mysterious corner smile. “Well, seeing as I’m neither a lord nor a king, you might as well call me by my actual name.” His eyes swept up and down her body in an assessing glance.

Anneith wished she had worn something other than her faded overcoat. In fact, she wished Hellas couldn’t see what she was wearing at all, because she wished that she _wasn’t here._

“Someone did a very nice job of healing you.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, so she is nervous no longer.”

She was sure her face was as red as those cursed roses. But she conjured up what was left of her dignity to ask, “If I may . .  ?”

Hellas took a sip of his whiskey. “By all means.”

“Why—why are you here?”

“Why am I here,” pondered Hellas. Loudly. “Why—why” he stretched out the syllable “am I here?”

Anneith pushed herself one last time. “Yes.”

“I am here because I thought I would follow up on a poor female who got herself stuck in a nasty thornbush one night.”

“A poor female?” Anneith was unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“Emphasis was on ‘nasty thornbush,’ but all right.”

“You followed me because you want to rescue another damsel-in-distress.”

Somewhere, inside her head, the normal Anneith was begging her to stop talking.

Hellas turned, and she could finally see his entire face. Her blood loss hadn’t been too severe the other night, it seemed, because he was exactly how she remembered him: elegant, angular features, high cheekbones, dark eyes. She contained a shiver. He was the personification of everything immortals feared about death; not the gentle kind, like Silba’s—this was the kind of death that naughty children were told about when they misbehaved.

He cocked his head to the side. “You like books?”

“What?”

“I recently had the chance to pick up reading again. Someone suggested Ianto’s works, and I read them—although I don’t particularly agree with his portrayal of kings. Or queens, for that matter.”

He waited for a response.

“What . . . what don’t you like about it?”

“Well, for one, in his first volume of poetry, he writes about a great war, and he puts all of the rulers up on pedestals that are much too high for them. And they don’t live up to their position, although he certainly makes it seem like they do.”

Books. Fine. This was something she could viably do. “Which monarch are you referring to? The King of the Hollows or the King of the Iyulls?”

“Neither. I’m talking about the Queen.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I don’t like her portrayal. She’s built up to be the strongest in the land, and when she’s introduced, finally, she does nothing for her people. She lets them starve while she paces in her castle wondering what to do instead of doing it.”

Anneith loved the Queen of Eldebs, but she was certainly not going to throw herself into an argument with the god of the Underworld.

“Anneith?” Someone laid their hand on her shoulder, and she whirled around. But it was only Aislin standing there, brows knit high on her beautiful face.

Great Goddess bless you, Ais.

“Y—yes?”

“It’s getting a little late. I just thought that you might want to go home before dinner.”

“Oh. Yes, um—” she turned to Hellas, who was staring forward once more.

“I suppose I’ll see you sometime else, then, Lady Anneith,” the Dark God said, without looking at her.

 

~*~

 

“Who was that?” Aislin panted as Anneith yanked on her arm, dragging her out of the cafe.

“He was—” Anneith stopped herself before she could utter his name. His name. Which he had given her full permission to use. “—no one.”

Aislin tugged her arm back. “He was not _no one_. I’ve seen no ones. And none of them look or behave like that. A—a no one would be—um—Paedar. He is the epitome of no one.”

“Who the fuck even is Paedar?” Anneith wondered out loud. “And why does everybody know him? I barely know him and apparently, he’s been in Leander _multiple times_.”

Her friend waved a dismissing arm. “No one you need to worry about. I mean, he’s no one. Ah, fuck, I mean—you know what, whatever. Point it, that immortal, that male, that—whatever he was, he was something else.” She paused. “And he was definitely a panty-dropper.”

“ _Aislin!_ ”

“What? I’m allowed to look at people.”

“I—” Anneith flung an arm in the air. “I give up.”

“I just hope you didn’t chase him away.”

Not likely. Not likely at all.

 

~*~

 

When Anneith got home, Caitriona was already wreaking havoc in her bedroom.

Her jaw dropped as she took in the mess. Pillows had been thrown on the ground in a mattress-like formation, dresses had been tossed out of her wardrobe, and her jewelry had been laid out in a strange geometric formation as if she was trying to perform some sort of seance.

“What the . . .”

Caitriona popped out from the closet. “Oh. Hello!”

“What the—” Anneith physically winced. “—hell are you doing?” She finished weakly.

Her younger sister rolled her eyes. “Finding you a gown for the Winter Ball, of course!”

Anneith collapsed into her bed. “I’m not going to the ball.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no?’ I’m not going. And that’s final.”

“Um, no? I’ve been digging through your closet since noon. You’re going.”

She groaned. “You’ve already abused me enough at your birthday party. Please, just leave me alone.”

Caitriona had the decency to look mildly apologetic. “Mother will force you to go and you know that. You’re only wasting the time you have to choose a dress that might actually save you from public shame.”

Anneith reached around blindly for pillows and growled when she realized that Caitriona had thrown them all on the floor. She capitulated to her stiff mattress. “Maybe she won’t. After all, you’ve just turned nineteen. All the attention will be on you.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” she grumbled. “But they still want to find suitors for you. And what better way to do that than to dress you up and show you off?”

Anneith closed her eyes. “Fine. What do you have?”

 

~*~

 

It was hopeless. Everything was too juvenile, too frilly, too poufy, too casual, too tight. At one point, Caitriona had let out a scream of frustration so loud that Caoimhe had come running into the room, brandishing a fireplace poker.

They had decided on two dresses that were decidedly less horrendous than the others. One was a shimmery iridescent gown, with a high collar (that would surely choke her) and cutouts at the waist. The other one was scarlet, short, with a sweetheart neckline that would surely be a problem.

“I could tighten the bodice,” suggested Caoimhe, peering at the dress. “Then it would be able to . . . function more effectively.”

“You mean deal with my pre-pubescent breasts?” Anneith replied gloomily. Caoimhe gave a motherly click of her tongue.

“What about the other one, then?” Caitriona moved to sit beside Anneith.

“I think it’s too tight for Anneith. I don’t know if I can alter it so that it’s not quite as asphyxiating around the waist.”

“Great. I’ll either look like a little girl or an overweight baboon.”

“Well, at least you won’t look as bad as that female did last year. A dress made of dead leaves, was it?”

“And ants. Don’t forget about the ants. She called it ‘Nature’s Exhibition.’”

“Are you sure we don’t have time to go into town and order a new one?” Caitriona said pleadingly.

Caoimhe shook her head. “Eoghan’s is already booked for the next month, and none of the other boutiques will accept new order so close to the holidays.”

“Anneith!” Malvolia’s voice drifted down the hallway, making all three females jump. “Come down!”

“I’ll be right there, Mother!” Anneith pushed herself off the bed, followed by Caitriona.

“It can’t be anything good if it’s before dinner.”

“Surely this day can’t get any worse.”

 

~*~

 

She was wrong.

When she and Caitriona entered the parlor, they were greeted by not only their parents, but another family—two males and a female. The older male had golden skin, with hair and a beard as dark as coffee—sans milk. He was dressed like a lord: clean-cut suit, polished shoes, gold pocket watch. The female was dressed to match, with a short-sleeved tea dress that exposed her shining teak-colored skin.

The younger male was a little different. He was dressed more casually, with a dark green formal shirt (no jacket) and trousers in the style that Caitriona liked to wear, occasionally, in the spring. His brown eyes were as dull as Anneith felt on the inside. Clearly, this was not someone who wanted to be here, either.

“Ah, my daughter . . . s. This is Anneith, my oldest, and Caitriona, the younger.” Ubel seemed to bite a little more on Anneith’s name. “Anneith, Caitriona, this is Lord Tudur. His wife, the Lady Bronwen, and their son, Lord Edryd.”

She performed a curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, Lord Tudur, Lady Bronwen, Lord Edryd.”

“Sit, sit!” Malvolia cried, and Anneith could have thrown up at the saccharine concern in her voice. “Have a biscuit, dears.”

“Your father was just telling us about you,” said Lady Bronwen in a manner that could only be described as simpering. Anneith resisted the urge to cringe at her tone.

“Yes, I was just describing your hobbies,” interjected her father.

_No doubt trying to promote my household abilities._

“Well, now that we’re all here, we can eat. This way to the dining room, Lord Tudur, Lady Bronwen . . .”

 

~*~

 

Dinner? They were serious about suitors.

Anneith simultaneously felt like fuming and weeping as she tried not to stab at her plate violently. Seated, furthest away from her, was Caitriona, who was currently trapped in a discussion with Lord Tudur and Ubel. Unable to come to Anneith’s rescue.

Seated to her immediate right was her mother, who took every opportunity to exaggerate Anneith’s skills in the home to Lady Bronwen. Even so, the compliments all felt backhanded and empty to her ears.

Seated to her immediate left was Lord Edryd, who, she thought, might have been the only sincere guest at the dinner table. He had no self-inhibitions about hiding his displeasure, instead stabbing at his steak openly and amounts of wine that, even for a noble male, was considered impolite.

The sight was both comforting and horrifying.

Comforting, knowing she wasn’t alone in simply not wanting to be there.

Horrifying, because what if this male became her husband? What if he, in the end, would be the one making empty vows to her, taking her virginity, fathering her children? Him, who, for all Anneith knew, was a conceited drunkard like the rest of the suitors?

It was a chilling, but not unfamiliar, reality to face.

Anneith took another shaky sip from her glass, nearly tipping it into her cleavage as Bronwen suddenly tittered, “And what does the lady Anneith think of hunting as building character for males? You know, my son hunts quite a lot.”

The proper answer was on the tip of her tongue. _Hunting is an excellent way to build character. If males are to be suitable, noble husbands and fathers, they need to learn how to participate in activities benefiting their natural abilities._

Was it possible to hate herself even more?

“Well,” she began, hand still trembling as she set down her glass. “I think that—”

“—you do hunt frequently, do you not, Edryd? I’ve heard copious accounts of your skill.” Malvolia interrupted, almost hastily, as if not even wanting to give Anneith the chance that she would destroy all hope of a match.

“I hunt from time to time.” Edryd’s voice was lower, and smoother than Anneith had anticipated. Despite “hunting frequently,” he was skinny, and not built like an athlete like Ubel was. Rather, he looked as if he was just past maturity.

“Oh! He’s very modest. He hunts with his father every fortnight. In fact, he often brings home enough meat for the entire manor.”

“Is that so? What an impressive repertoire of skills you have: hunting, diplomacy, equestrianism.” Her mother pushed.

“I suppose so.”

“Anneith!” Malvolia’s voice seemed to become higher, sharper, attracting the attention of everyone at the table. “Don’t you think that Lord Edryd’s hobbies are simply outstanding?”

Anneith could feel her eyes darting everywhere—to the floral centerpiece, to the crown molding on the walls, to the stained glass depicting the Leander—everywhere but the immortals seated before her. “They’re very impressive.”

“Well then, perhaps the two of you could get to know each other and Edryd could take you on a trip around our manor.” Bronwen’s voice, like Malvolia’s, had climbed even higher, and Anneith could only imagine what kind of negotiations she was working through her mind between her and Edryd. “Wouldn’t that be absolutely wonderful, Edryd?”

“Splendid.” Edryd downed the rest of the wine in his glass and reached for the bottle.

It was empty, and Anneith felt exactly how he looked: deflated.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment and tell me how you liked it!
> 
> Visit my Tumblr for more: goldbooksblack


	5. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAMES:  
> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (Kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Huxley (Hux-LEE)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Gethen (GEH-than)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)  
> Caru (CAH-ru)  
> Macha (MAK-ah)  
> Dewydd (deh-WIH-d)

The gods-damned dress was too big.

Caoimhe stepped back to examine Anneith as she waddled around on the pedestal. “Hmm.”

“Hmm.” Caitriona agreed.

Anneith sighed. “Hmm isn’t a word! You two sound like fucking bees!”

“ _Language_ , young lady,” chastised Caoimhe. The attendant was just five years older than Anneith, and she had grown up alongside the sisters—she was as dear to them as they were to each other. And, considering the fact that Malvolia certainly paid no attention to them, Caoimhe was their de facto mother as well.

“You can’t take in more of the bust?” Asked Caitriona desperately.

“I said that this wasn’t going to work. Did I not say that this wasn’t going to work?” Anneith turned to Aislin, who was watching the whole fitting with an expression of extreme pain on her lovely face.

“Hush, you,” snapped Caoimhe, poking her with a pin. “No, Caitriona, I don’t think I can take in more of the bust. Any more and the fabric will tear.”

They had decided on the iridescent one, and, as she had predicted, the collar was indeed choking her. And so much of the bodice had been sheared off that the cutouts at the waist were beginning to fray.

“The ball’s in three hours,” moaned Caitriona. “We don’t have time for another option.”

“So I’ll just parade out there. With my nipples out.”

She wasn’t exaggerating. The dress had yet another a half-moon-shaped cutout from the clavicle down to what was supposed to be the cleavage—if Anneith had normal-sized breasts like her sister. But no. The papery fabric, without anything to stretch it, dipped down and narrowly skimmed by the tips of her areolas.

“Why don’t you just wear a different dress?” Caoimhe begged.

“They’re not in season.”

“It’s probably better to wear a bright yellow dress as opposed to having your nipples flapping in the wind.”

Just as Caitriona opened her mouth to give her input, the door swung open abruptly. A young maid stood there, a large cream box in her arms. “A package was delivered for you, Lady Anneith.”

“Me? I wasn’t ex—”

“—no,” called Aislin smugly. “But I was.” She practically danced across the room, snatching the box away from the maid and shooing her out with a polite utterance of appreciation.

“Aislin, what is this?” Anneith groaned. “Please tell me it’s not like three years ago, when—”

“—that was _one_ time. And how would I know that the grass would catch on fire—”

“—oh, just open it!” Caitriona flopped onto the bed next to a resigned-looking Caoimhe. “We could use some interesting presents to distract us from Anneith’s horrifying nipples.”

With a flourish, Aislin uncovered the box to reveal—

“Aislin, no.”

For inside the box was the gold dress that Aislin had tried on, just three weeks prior. It was still as mesmerizing as it had been that day, its material catching every ray of light in the room. Behind her, Caoimhe gasped slightly and Caitriona squealed with excitement. “Finally, something that won’t make you look homeless!”

Anneith ignored her. “Aislin, I can’t accept this. This had to cost at least fifteen hundred gold marks! ”  

Aislin shook her head fiercely. “I saw how much you liked the dress the other day! I couldn’t just leave you hopeless like that. And besides, both of us have enough money to last millennia and some more. Fifteen hundred gold marks is nothing.”

(“‘Nothing,’ she says,” grumbled Caiomhe.)

“No.” She said firmly. “I barely see you anymore, and the first thing you do is buy me something? Absolutely not.”

Her friend rolled her eyes. “I’m not _bribing_ you. I would need more than fifteen hundred gold marks for that. All I want is for you to look nice and to show those old village gossips that they’re on the bottom rung of the social ladder, once and for all.” She shoved the box at her. “Now go try it on.”

~*~

The dress fit perfectly. Aislin had gotten her measurements (yes, even the bust!) completely accurate.

The seam connecting the bodice to the skirt was taken in perfectly, fitting snugly around her waist. The straps fanned out along her shoulders, but did not chafe. And the neckline was cut low, but the tightness of the material around her chest ensured that there would be no accidental flashing that evening.

And with a pair of scarlet round toe d'Orsay heels, along with gold double helix earrings, she had to admit: her friends knew her well. Because she looked better than she ever had in her entire life.

Smoothing down the front of her dress, she stepped out into her room proper.

Caoimhe gasped, clasping her hands together in awe. Aislin broke into a massive grin.

And Caitriona . . . well, she just screamed.

Running up to her, she shook Anneith’s shoulders fiercely. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look right now? Do you? If those bastards could see you now . . . just you wait! By a quarter to eight, everyone will be begging to fuck you!”

“I find your obsession with sex disturbing,” interjected Caoimhe. “But you do look beautiful, Anneith.”

“Thank you.” She let out a long sigh, turning to give Aislin a tight smile. “To the ball, then.”

~*~

She had to admit: this was far better than she could have ever anticipated.

Gasps had been audible all throughout the room when she, Caitriona, and Aislin walked in. Aislin had nudged her. “Those are for you, beauty queen.”

“Oh, shut up,” she had murmured back, reaching for a glass of champagne.

“There’s Mother and Father, let’s hide.” Quickly, all three females averted their eyes. 

As they settled into their chairs, servers ambled by them, offering food. 

“At least the food is good,” muttered Caitriona, as she shoveled tiny sandwich after tiny sandwich into her mouth. Anneith grimaced.

Aislin nudged the younger sister, causing her to choke a little. “Look, isn’t that Lord Gethen?”

She squinted. “Huh. It is. I wonder why he’s here. I would have pegged him for the type to hide as far away as possible from society until the end of time, after what happened with Caru.”

“It is strange,” agreed Anneith. “Did something happen?”

“Ladies!”

The hostess herself came floating over to them. Lady Macha was Anneith and Caitriona’s distant aunt, on Malvolia’s side. Macha looked barely older than thirty, despite being about one hundred and fifty in reality. Her honey skin glowed effortlessly, and her kind mahogany eyes, lined with makeup, peered down at the group. Her nude-and-black dress was quite modest; high at the neckline, stretching down to her ankles. The material was sheer, but the layer above it was sequined so that the little jewels formed a shell-like shape from the waist up. From the waist down, the shell inverted and then fanned out and dispersed completely into single, sparkling diamonds.

“Hello, Aunt Macha,” said Caitriona, between bites of—or was it just frosting?—cake.

Macha scrunched up her nose. “There’s cream on your nose.”

“Oh.”

Anneith could feel the vibrations of Aislin’s cringe as Caitriona swiped the blob of frosting off of her nose and licked it off of her fingers.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Caitriona shot back as she caught sight of Macha’s almost-disappointed (but not surprised) expression. “I don’t mean to offend you, aunt, but—”

“—go ahead, then,” replied their aunt. “By all means. Insult away.”

“—none of us want to be here.”

“I want to be here!” Protested Aislin. “I adore your parties, Lady Macha.”

“Thank you, Aislin. There’s at least one decent female out of this group. And what about you, Anneith?”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“Not even a little?”

“My entire being is screaming.”

“Fair enough.” Macha sighed. “At least try to look like you’re enjoying yourself. Otherwise, your parents will have an excuse to come over here.”

“Fuckin’ come over here,” said Caitriona with a mouth full of petit-fours. “Fight me.”

“Ignore her. I don’t know her.” Moaned Aislin.

“Ah. Well, I believe there’s a lord waving me over. Enjoy the rest of the night, ladies.”

“She’s perfect,” sighed Aislin as they watched Macha flow away.

“How is she even related to our parents?” Grumbled Caitriona.

“I haven’t seen her in so long,” mused their friend, grabbing a biscuit and nibbling daintily on it.

“She hasn’t been out much. Not since Dewydd died.” Caitriona paused, reflecting. “She hasn’t been the same.”

Dewydd was somewhat of a legend within immortal social circles. The bastard son of a promiscuous minor lord and a dishwasher in a local tavern, he was destined to be no more than another low-born servant. But one dark night, a young seventeen-year-old Macha returned from her education on the Coast of Leander, stumbling into her family manor’s kitchen seeking shelter from the storm. Dewydd, who had accidentally stained the lady of the house’s blouses with red wine, was the only one awake (carrying out his punishment to clean the kitchen from floor to ceiling).

Macha had been surprised to see a young, handsome servant she didn’t know, and Dewydd had been surprised to have a young, beautiful female stumble into the house at around two in the morning. As gossip told it, Macha had made her way across the threshold of the house before promptly fainting, exhausted from the energy it had taken to winnow and the icy, relentless rain. The young servant, completely clueless as to who this female was but also unwilling to let a dead body be found in the kitchen _that he was supposed to be cleaning,_ carried her to his tiny corner of the cellar and let her rest there.

Even after Macha woke up, explained who she was, and Dewydd understood the obvious difference between her and himself, they couldn’t avoid each other. She was there at every corner, every corridor, every hallway. He was there in the kitchens, in the cellar, in the yards.

Anneith remembered her uncle as a fierce, daring figure, a contrast to her soft-spoken aunt. Of their story he had once chuckled, “proximity took over, and, uh, you’re old enough to know what happens when _proximity_ takes over . . .”

(Macha had slapped his arm for that, blushing fiercely.)

They had caused quite a scandal, the two of them, running away together—Macha had taken her entire inheritance out of the family coffers and both of them fled to the Cliffs of Iseult. There they had settled, in a little cottage not too far from Leander. Macha did not see her home for eighty years, not until her parents died and the couple moved back.

Dewydd had started becoming weaker and weaker just five years prior. The healers attributed it to the harsh working conditions of his first job—quarrying. No remedies worked, and despite his best efforts to combat his failing body, Dewydd died after two years of pain.

It was said, whispered, gossiped among the servants of Macha’s household that the lady did not leave her bedchambers for over a year, eating nought more than bread and water. Mourning her husband of almost one-hundred and twenty years.

“This is the first big social event she’s thrown since he died,” muttered Anneith in a low voice as a couple waltzed (uncomfortably) close to them. “It’s remarkable she even decided to organize a ball like this.”

“Your aunt is a brave female,” said Aislin, eyes still tracking Macha as she made her way across the room, greeting guests. “To lose the love of your life, just when you thought you had a lifetime together—”

“—oh, hello Anneith. Caitriona. Aislin.”

Anneith felt like puking as Aislin’s voice was cut off abruptly and Huxley’s pinched face came into view. He stuck his head between Anneith and Aislin, almost hitting the young female in the face. Draping himself over the ears of both their chairs, he smirked. “How are you ladies?”

“Fine. Until you came along.” Caitriona smiled sweetly as Huxley’s ears turned scarlet. Aislin stifled a snort.

“Anneith,” he said loudly. “How would you like to dance?”

Great Goddess. No.

“Alright. . . "

“Fantastic.”

He grabbed her hand, his grip tight and his palms sweaty as he led them onto the ballroom center floor. Placing an extremely warm hand on her waist (she cringed), he purred, “You look beautiful.”

Anneith moved stiffly with his pace. “Thank you.”

“Have you heard about Lord Caru?”

“Yes, I have. A shame,” she added quickly.

He gave a dramatic, self-promoting sigh. “Yes. What a shame, that such an unfortunate fate would befall him. Who could have predicted that he would be murdered in such a gruesome way?”

“Murder?” Anneith’s heart started to pound wildly.

Huxley smirked. “So you didn’t hear, then? I wouldn’t have expected you to, anyway, it just happened last night.”

“What happened?”

“Well, you see—” he yanked them around another dancing couple “—Caru and his _whore_ were at an—inn, I believe it was, and word had gotten out that they were a wealthy couple—the son of a lord, and all that. While they were sleeping, some thief entered their room, bent on stealing something. The most likely scenario is that Caru awoke from the sounds, and the thief, probably terrified of being caught, killed him before he could say anything. Killed Caru’s whore and his bastard for good measure, too. Gutted the both of them.”

“I—” Caitriona would be devastated. “I—.”

Huxley nodded vehemently, his grip on her waist somehow tightening. “I suppose it just goes to prove that nobles such as ourselves who dabble with those below us get what’s coming to them.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit my Tumblr for more: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)


	6. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (Kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Huxley (Hux-LEE)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Gethen (GEH-than)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)  
> Caru (CAH-ru)  
> Bronwen (bron-WEN)  
> Edryd (ed-VER-d)  
> Aengus (ENG-iss)

Caitriona had been silent all week.

Dizzy after the whole encounter, Anneith had stumbled back to the corner. Aislin had been swept away, by a handsome young lord, but Caitriona remained in the corner, still shoving sweets into her mouth, and glass of champagne in her hand. She brightened up when she saw her older sister. “Did you kick him? Please tell me you did.”

“Caitriona . . . “

“What? Oh, that stain? No, I’ll get that out, don’t worry.”

“No, Caitriona . . .”

“What? What happened?”

“N-nothing.” There was no use upsetting her. Not now, when they were in what might as well have been a battlefield. Except there were no weapons, no blood—just the status of those who could only destroy good things.

“Bullshit. Just tell me. I can handle it. ”

“Caitriona . . .” she took a breath. “It’s about Caru.”

“Oh! Did his wife have the baby?”

“I—I—”

“It’s not. Alright, then, what is it?”

“Caitriona . . . Caru’s dead. Him and his wife and their baby.”

And that had been it. Caitriona had stared up at her, her hand going slack, champagne spilling into her lap, flute shattering on the hard marble floor.

“Caitriona—” but she was already gone, shooting up so rapidly that Anneith had had hardly enough time to grasp her arm before she yanked it away. Skirt breezing up behind her, her sister had fled out of the ballroom.

 

~*~

 

Her parents had tried, for days, to coax her out of her room. But she had refused, letting only Caoimhe go in with food that she almost never ate.

Today, Anneith was waiting anxiously at the door. But there was no hope of her sister emerging from her cocoon today, it seemed, as the doors opened to reveal Caoimhe—with no indication of the beautiful lady in sight.

“How is she?” Anneith asked anxiously.

Caoimhe looked up at her, a dark expression on her face. “Not well.” She presented a tray to her. It was still heaped full of bread, soup, and Shepherd's Pie.

Anneith felt her shoulders slump. “This is my fault.”

It wasn’t a new concept to her. Had Anneith never told Caitriona about Caru, she would have never retreated into herself like this. Would have still eaten, still laughed, still been happy.

Caoimhe began to move towards the stairs. “Some of the young ones in the kitchen tell me that Gethen is over the moon about this.”

“I’m sure he is. With the two of them gone, he’s saved his family reputation.”

“It’s impossible, isn’t it?” The maid shook her head sadly. “To forge your own path in this world, even if you have the will and means to do it?”

“In this world,” murmured Anneith, “nothing short of being a god will help you.”

 

~*~

 

Grainne Square was chaos.

Anneith tugged her cloak around her body, silently mourning the spring as a gust of icy wind swept across her front. Beside her, Aislin grumbled about the cold.

Market day was always a bit of a fiasco. Both town merchants and foreign merchants made their way into town on market day, and both females soon realized that without the experienced Caoimhe there, they were utterly at the mercy of the crowd.

“Why?” Moaned Aislin. “Why did I agree to come out here with you?”

“I didn’t coerce you.”

“You were moping. It was a silent cry for help.”

“It was a silent cry for help to be saved from _you._ ”

“Ooh, what about that?” Conflict forgotten, Aislin excitedly stuck her finger between two elderly immortals and pointed at a stand selling squash.

“No,” said Anneith firmly.

“Why? Caoimhe has squash on her list, check it.”

“That’s not the stand she wants us to buy it from.” Dragging her friend away, Anneith sidestepped a male who was windmilling his arms. “Let’s make our way to the center and get our bearings.”

“Fine.” Aislin rolled her eyes. “What shall we do next, Mother?”

Anneith was in no mood to banter with her. “Caoimhe needs scallions, potatoes, and cheese. I suppose we’ll start from there.”

“Wait, Anneith, isn’t that Lord Edryd?”

Anneith felt as if she was reliving a nightmare, following Aislin’s pointer finger to, indeed, Edryd. The wind had tousled his hair, and his loose coat belt flapped gently around his waist.

“Yes,” mumbled Anneith. “Let’s go. I don’t want to land myself in more tepid situations before I’m required to by the overbearing mothers society.”

“No!” Aislin grabbed her wrist. “Better you face this head-on, with him alone, rather than with his mother, yes? And—look, he has a friend!”

As a matter of fact, it did look as if Edryd had a companion, as a lithe, ginger-haired male came up to him and clapped him on the back.  

“Look,” said Aislin eagerly. “I can distract his friend while you two talk.”

“I don’t want to talk to him.”

“You said that he was ‘cold, bored, and distant.’ It sounds like he’s not too fond of this whole political marriage idea either. Make him your ally.”

“By ambushing him?” Anneith scoffed. “I don’t think so.” She began to walk away.

“It’s not ambushing him if you’re in an open space. We’re doing it,” declared Aislin, dragging her towards Edryd and the mystery ginger.

“No!” Anneith hissed. “Aislin, let go of me or I swear I will—”

“Hello!” Aislin was her social self, chirping away. “Pardon me, but are you Lord Edryd?”

Edryd turned, glance first landing on Aislin, then on Anneith. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes. May I ask who my lady is?”

“Edryd, don’t be rude,” his companion stepped forward, chiding. Taking Aislin’s hand in his, he planted a chaste kiss on the back of it. “Lady Aislin, a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Aislin blushed.

 _You flirt_.

_Shut the fuck up._

“And may I ask your name?”

The ginger gave her a grin that could only be described as roguish. “Aengus, at your service.”

Aislin held his gaze for several long moments before she seemed to remember that Edryd and Anneith were immortals that, too, existed. “Oh! Lord Aengus, this is my friend. Lord Edryd, I believe you’re familiar with her—”

“—indeed I am,” said the young lord in a flat voice.

“—this is Anneith.”

Clasping her basket at her hip, Anneith performed a small curtsy. “It’s nice to meet you, Lord Aengus.”

“Please, please, it’s just Aengus. What are you ladies doing at the market today?”

“Oh, just fetching some groceries for Anneith’s family.”

_Three minutes it was “why did I agree to come out here with you” and now it’s “we’re fetching some groceries for the poor servants like the perfect angels we are?”_

(Aislin kicked her in the foot, smiling at something Aengus was saying.)

“If you don’t mind, Edryd and I actually don’t have anything to do this afternoon. Mind if we accompany you?”

“Oh, actually—”

“—no, not at all!” Aislin giggled. Actually giggled. Anneith wanted to gag.

Chattering, Aislin looped her free arm into Aengus’s, and the pair led themselves in front of Aislin.

Leaving her alone with a sullen-looking Edryd.

Knowing it would be rude to speed ahead of him, Anneith kept pace. Pushing down the rising feeling of dread at the prospect of interacting with him, Anneith made her voice cheerful. “How—how are you, Lord Edryd?”

“I’m fine.”

“Any—um, any upcoming plans?”

“No.”

(Anneith wanted to drown in her own mortification.)

“Your mother mentioned that—uh—you like hunting?”

She was grasping at straws that simply did not exist.

“My mother,” he said sourly, “mentions a lot of things.”

“Oh.”

They walked in silence, both watching their friends laugh in front of them.

Anneith didn’t blame him. If she had a strange female—a proposed wife, really—come up to him with her hypersocial friend and ruin his afternoon, she would have sulked too. She just wished that he could tell her that he hated her instead of remaining stoic.

She envied Aislin, for her effortless conversation-starters and self-segues. Somehow, she never made it seem like she was intruding upon a private discussion.

Anneith had about as much charisma as a soggy piece of toast.

“What do you like to do, Lady Anneith?”

She blinked, and almost looked around wildly for the speaker before realizing that it had come from Edryd himself. “What? Oh, me?”

Edryd raised an eyebrow, his chiseled features becoming almost impatient. “Yes.”

“I . . . like to read,” she replied lamely.

“What do you like to read?”

“Everything. Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Well, most things.”

“Have you read . . .” he hesitated. “Battle Tactics and Strategies by Lord Fergus the Elder?”

Anneith blinked, half in surprise. “Yes. In fact, I—it’s one of my favorites.”

She could have sworn the corner of Edryd’s lip curled into a small smile. “So, then, pray tell: what does a lady of your status—” he dragged out the word mockingly, and Anneith held back a smile. “—have to love about a book written more than half a century ago by a mountain recluse with delusions of grandeur?”

“Well, for starters—”

 

~*~

 

“It’s an awfully beautiful day, isn’t it?” Aengus leaned back in his chair.

Anneith took a sip of her latte. (They were at a different cafe, thank the gods.) “It is uncharacteristically sunny,” she agreed.

It turned out that she and Edryd had some things in common. It wasn’t so much that he liked Battle Tactics and Strategies as much as the fact that he revered it as the best novel for practical, everyday use. There were some flaws in his argument, but Anneith had to agree: battle tactics could be used as effectively against an enemy army as they could against scheming nobles.

“So, Aengus, Edryd—” Aislin gave the two males a brilliant smile that, as the day went on, Anneith was no longer sure was faked. “How did you two meet?”

“Well, Edryd is from the Flatlands, but I happen to hail from the Bay of Diarmuid. One day, this fine male—” Aengus clapped Edryd on the back, and the male gave him an eye roll in return. Anneith smiled into her cup. “—got himself stranded in the mud near my home in the middle of a thunderstorm. Luckily, one of my neighbors saw him and decided, the good chap, that, instead of taking him in himself, he would dump Edryd on my doorstep and let me take care of him. This fool still loathes me, of course, but he still owes me a life debt.”

“You didn’t save my life, Aengus. It was just some rain.”

“You could have sickened. And died.”

“I’m an immortal."

“Still could have died.”

_Immortal, remember?_

_Immortal doesn’t mean invincible._

Anneith felt her insides churn as she recalled her sister’s words. Her sister, who was probably still bundled in seventy layers of blankets, lying unmoving in bed. Starving. She bolted up from her chair.

“And so I said—Anneith? Sweet, are you alright?” Aislin was staring up at her,

“I—oh, I’m sorry, um, Lord Aengus, Lord Edryd,” she stammered. “But, uh, I just realized that my family is expecting me back home soon.”

“Oh, that’s perfectly fine,” said Aengus kindly, giving her an airy wave. “No worries. We will see you around sometime?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Lord Aengus, Lord Edryd, I hope to see both of you soon. Goodbye, Aislin.”

The image of her baby sister fresh in her mind, Anneith spun on her heel and winnowed home.

 

~*~

 

“Oh, thank the gods!” The instant that Anneith appeared in the foyer, Caoimhe came running up to her. “She’s awake. And eating.”

The lady gripped the maid’s hands. “How does she seem?”

“Still upset, still heartbroken. But this could be a step in the right direction.”

Anneith spared a glance towards the dining room. “Should . . . should I . . .”

Caoimhe gave her a sympathetic glance. “No. Not now, I think. She needs some time alone, and even your parents are giving her a wide berth. It’s probably best if you stay away. For a bit.”

She nodded, slowly. “Alright.”

“Come,” said Caoimhe, gesturing to the large basket that Anneith still had clasped between her wrist and hip. “Help me in the kitchen, will you? Almost all of the others have gone home as an early Yulemas holiday.”

“Of course, of course.”

 

~*~

 

“Tell me then,” said Caoimhe, as she began to unpack the groceries. “What took you so long? I expect it to be overcrowded on market day, but not four hours late overcrowded.”

“We ran into some . . . distractions,” muttered Anneith.

“Distractions?”

“Lord Edryd was there. With a friend.”

Caoimhe gave a little snort. “Oh, the luck you have.” She reached for a cutting board and began to chop celery.

Anneith, following suit, cleaved an onion in half, being particularly merciless. “Don’t I know it.”

“What did he do, then? Glare at you for four hours?”

She paused. Half to blink away the onion tears, half to contemplate what had really happened. “No, actually. He was . . . civil.”

“Civil? That’s a shock. I never thought that a male like that  would ever merit a ‘civil’ from you, of all people.”

“I don’t believe it either,” she admitted. “But we conversed a little, and . . .”

Caoimhe let out a small—what could only be described as a—hoot. “He’s well-read, isn’t he?”

Anneith turned to her. Caoimhe was now standing near the large bronze pot, stirring it as the water bubbled and boiled. Her eyebrow was raised suggestively. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean—” the servant leaned over to add some celery to the mix “—that you have a tendency to be swept off of your feet whenever someone mentions books.”

“I—”

“—no, no. Don’t try to argue with me. Remember when you were ten and you thought that you were in love with that boy who you saw once? All because he was reading a book?”

“Caoimhe, I was _ten_.”

“That doesn’t matter. The point is, you should remember that Edryd is still one of your suitors. Bored and indifferent as he may appear, who knows what he wants? Or what he’s being offered from this match?”

“So, essentially,” began Anneith slowly. “Push everyone away until I’m inevitably married to a six-hundred-year-old alcoholic.”

Caoimhe rolled her eyes. “I’m not telling you to be wary of him. I know you are. You are wary of anyone who is remotely sensitive, Anneith.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“I’m simply saying that—pass me the butter, thank you—there are beings in this world that would love to take advantage of a young, unmarried female such as yourself because of who your family is and what they have. From your words, it seems like Edryd is a semi-decent male, but not all of them will be. In fact, I very much doubt any of the rest will be as tolerable.”

“Understood,” Anneith muttered.

 

~*~

 

“Edryd!”

Anneith struggled to maintain her pleasant expression as the shrill voice of Lady Browen emerged from the depths of the manor. Even Malvolia’s flawless features contorted into an irritated sneer. Deciding to, finally, forgo the ostentatious carriages, Ubel, Malvolia, and Anneith had winnowed to Lord Tudur’s home in the Flatlands. It was supposedly—as Malvolia put it—“a simple brunch between our families.”

It was, in actuality: “an exhibit of our riches in exchange for your oldest daughter.”

The door swung open to reveal, as it always seemed, the perfectly composed trio of Lord Tudur, Lady Bronwen, and Edryd.

“Welcome!” cried Lady Bronwen, gesticulating wildly.

“I hope your journey wasn’t too arduous,” offered Lord Tudur in his low, smooth voice. “The distance is quite far.”

“Oh, we’re so glad you’re here,” the lady babbled on, impervious and unaware of her husband’s interjection. “Isn’t that right, Edryd, dear?”

“Yes,” muttered Edryd, and Anneith nearly cracked a smile when he looked up, made eye contact, and seemed to convey through his brown eyes: save me.

“Come in, come in!”

“I do hope we’re not intruding,” said Malvolia with stiff politeness.

“Oh, don’t fret! As a matter of fact, Lord Tudur and Edryd were just about to hunt for the week, would you like to accompany us outside?”

“And hunt alongside?” Anneith couldn’t imagine the impeccably dressed Lady Bronwen relegating herself to traipsing through the mud to shoot some game.

Lady Bronwen’s eyes widened comically. “Oh, dear, no! No! Of course not, you silly one. For a female to hunt—what an anarchical idea! No, us _females_ —” she uttered the word females as if she, Malvolia,  and Anneith were keeping a secret to themselves “—will stay on the backyard landing.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Malvolia shot a sharp glance at her daughter, eyes boring into hers. Warning her to shut her damn mouth.

The table was already set with a grand centerpiece of candytufts and delicate pink rhododendron, as well as several offerings of cake and tea. Lady Bronwen preened as Anneith and her mother took their seats.

“Oh, Lady Malvolia, you must tell me more about your husband’s business ventures. You see, Lord Tudur and I have been trying to interest Edryd in some other industries, and I thought that, since your family is so involved in the business going-ons of the island, you could give us some advice?”

Malvolia took a dainty sip from her teacup. “Of course, of course. Well, Lord Ubel and I _just_ took a trip to the Flatlands to sort out some difficult property transactions—one of his cousins, bless her, was a lovely female, but not the brightest, if you know what I mean . . .”

As usual, Anneith lost track of the stiff dialogue halfway through, and began to look around the yard. The backyard landing was a deck attached to a section of the manor proper that was an outside sitting area that was screened in. The backyard itself was quite large—about an acre and a half, Anneith estimated. Further than that was the forest where Lord Tudur, Edryd, and Ubel had disappeared to hunt.

Unlike Leander’s gardens, it was clear that Edryd’s family did not take much stock in planting flowers and other miscellaneous crap. Instead, their yard was freshly mowed—a deep green color.

“Anneith!”

Startled, Anneith nearly knocked her teacup over as she met her mother’s burning blue eyes. “Yes—I apologize, I—”

“—oh, that’s _alright._ I was just wondering what you think of that awful murder that happened just days ago.”

A too-familiar feeling of nausea washed over her, and even Malvolia looked a bit on-guard. “Oh?”

“Of course, it’s a shock, who would have thought?” Bronwen prattled. Anneith wanted to her to shut up.

“I—”

“—poor Lord Gethen, don’t you agree, Malvolia? To lose his only child in such a violent way. Although . . . to be seen out with a maid! And to have such scandalous relations with her! If Edryd did that to me, I don’t know how I would be able to forgive him. Now, I’m not _saying_ that they should have died, poor things, but perhaps it was for the greater good.”

“Of course.”

“Did you know his son, Anneith?”

“M—me? Oh, no. I didn’t.”

She couldn’t escape the gossip. Even in Grainne Square the other day, she had heard snippets of conversations.

_Did you hear about what happened at a tavern out west?_

_Did you hear about Gethen’s son?_

_My cousin works for Gethen, and he says that the lord’s devastated._

_Liar! My uncle says that he’s overjoyed._

_What about his wife, though, that pretty female?_

_Bah! She was nothing more than an attention-seeking whore._

_Don’t speak ill of the dead._

And to hear the judgement come from someone like Lady Bronwen, someone who seemed so far gone, so far removed from the hardships that Anneith knew must have factored into Caru’s decision . .  . it was enough to get her blood boiling.

“Oh!”

Faster than Anneith could have ever anticipated, Lady Bronwen’s cup was suddenly out of her grasp, shattering into fragments on the hard redwood below them. Golden tea pooled between the cracks of the boards.

Anneith’s heart pounded wildly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had experienced something like that. Something where she—

“—Anneith!” Malvolia screeched. “Get the lady a towel!”

Anneith nodded, numbly. As she made her way into the house in search of some sort of towel, she could feel the blood rushing in her ears.

_How did that just happen?_

_How?_

Losing control was not something she did. In fact, it was not something anyone did, save for children. If an immortal still didn’t have control of their magic after the age of eleven or twelve, they were considered . . . challenged.

(Anneith didn’t even want to think of all the other names for those beings.)

She herself had not lost control since she was five years old.

Her legs shook as she walked aimlessly around the manor, mind blank with shock.

Finally managing to find a dry towel on a counter in the kitchens, Anneith’s hands trembled as she made her way outside again. Lady Bronwen was still dabbing at herself to no avail with an already soaked napkin, Malvolia hovering over her. The moment her daughter stepped back onto the deck, her head snapped up, eyes boring into her.

Anneith hurried over, handing the towel to Lady Bronwen.

“Thank you, darling. I don’t know what came over me! One minute the teacup is perfectly fine, and the next, it’s all over the ground. My fault, silly me!”

“Yes,” said Malvolia, tone still sharp. “It was just an accident, nothing to worry about.”

“Lady Bronwen!”

All three females turned to see Lord Tudur, Ubel, and Edryd emerge from the forest—successful, it seemed, in their hunt. A large elk was slung over Edryd’s shoulder, and Lord Tudur was puffed up with pride.

Ubel approached the deck, placing a purposeful hand next to Malvolia’s. “It’s getting rather dark, Lady Bronwen, shall we go in for dinner?”

Lady Bronwen seemed to— _blush?_ —ever so slightly at Ubel’s charm. Anneith stifled a gag.

“Yes, of course! The dining room is this way . . .”

 

~*~

 

Anneith, to no one’s surprise, was once again seated next to Edryd.

This time, however, Anneith didn’t mind—and neither did Edryd, it seemed. In fact, the young lord seemed even more content than he had been that day at the market with Aislin and Aengus. Something that Anneith hadn’t thought possible.

“Have you give any thought to my theory?” Asked Edryd, passing her the salt.

Anneith blinked. “Oh, the one about the Battle of Ines? Well, I suppose it would have worked in that scenario, but given the fact that the Afonso’s army was quickly advancing, it would have been difficult for Pedro to gain any traction on the battlefield.”

Edryd considered it, eyes thoughtful. “What if Pedro’s wife had never died?”

Anneith stifled a small snort. “If she never died, the battle wouldn’t have ever happened.”

“True, true. But what a turn of events. Afonso was poised to banish Pedro forever, and lo and behold, he dies just months later, leaving Pedro on the throne.”

“It is a rather dismal ending,” agreed Anneith. “Though I can’t say I’m inclined to sympathize with Afonso after all that.”

“No, of course not. It is a waste, though, to see him fall after so little time.”

“Mm.”

“Oh, you two seem _so_ cozy over here.” Out of nowhere, Lady Bronwen’s head was tilted uncomfortably close to the two of them. “Us old immortals must be so boring to the pair of you. Edryd, why don’t you show Anneith around the yard and the greenhouse?”

“Oh, no, that’s alright,” Anneith replied politely.

“No, no!” Bronwen shook her head violently. “Edryd . . .”

“Yes, Mother.” Edryd’s sullen facade had returned, and he gestured out of the room. “After you, my lady.”

Aware that the entire table was watching them, Anneith stood and awkwardly looped her arm through Edryd’s. Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw Malvolia nod, satisfied. She cringed.

“This way to the greenhouse,” muttered Edryd in her ear, leading her into the dark house.

 

~*~

 

The greenhouse was eerily reminiscent of another scene.

“You like plants?”

Anneith snorted. “Really?”

Edryd stuck his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Alright, alright. It’s not as if I had any other conversation starters.”

“To answer your question,” Anneith surveyed the neat rows of herbs and vegetables, walking down the pathway. “Not really.”

“No? You seem like the gardening type.”

She laughed. “In what way?”

“You . . . fine, it was a bad conversation starter.”

“My mother is the one who likes gardening, not me.”

“Ah.”

“And I . . .” she paused. Then, quieter, “I am nothing like my mother.” She turned to face Edryd, who was surveying her with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“No. No, you aren’t.”

The atmosphere had changed. Something in the air was not quite the same, and she had no idea if it was the wind or . . . _him._

Anneith shifted, face burning. “So,” she said. “Do _you_ like gardening?”

Edryd tipped his head back and chuckled. “I see how this is going to go. Gardening is methodical. It’s nice. Although my mother, as you can probably infer, is not the happiest about me spending too much time in the greenhouse.”

“No? I would have thought she would have liked a son who knows how to put food on the table.”

“Meat, maybe. Not so much vegetables.”

“Huh.”

They came to a small stone bench, pushed up against one of the walls. Edryd sat, motioning for her to follow.

“This is pretty shit, huh?”

“Shit doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“No.”

“Did you . . . did you think that you would end up here?”

Edryd smirked. “In this greenhouse, with a female? Because I can tell you that it’s happened before, and—”

“—oh, gods, stop!” Anneith poked him. “I mean, did you think that you would end up in this situation? Being . . . arranged to someone else?”

Edryd considered it. “I . . . I think I always knew it would be inevitable. Maybe I thought once that I could stick it out. Live for centuries as a bachelor until my parents became old and desperate. But I am an only son. If my parents want to, let’s say, _continue their family legacy_ , I would always have had to marry.”

“No regrets?”

“Oh, regrets number plenty. Too many to count, really. But what’s a male to do on this island, yes?”

Anneith looked up and met the young lord’s brown eyes. He offered her a soft smile, and she couldn’t help but smile back. Softly. This was . . . strange. Edryd was so unlike all of the other sleazy males she had come to know, like Huxley. He was charming, and smart. He was . . . someone she liked. Someone she could, perhaps—

No. Not so early on. She had to remember who she was, in this situation, with her future hanging in jeopardy above a dinner table laden with food and guests who married off their children as easily as buying groceries. But if she had to choose . . .

Edryd cleared his throat slightly, jumping up from the bench and offering Anneith his arm again. “Well, Lady Anneith, shall we proceed?”

She stood up, sweeping her skirts under her. “There’s more?”

“Well, no, but I thought I heard the familiar gait of my mother—”

“—say no more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment and tell me how you liked it!
> 
> Visit my Tumblr for more: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)


	7. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you all so much for all the fantastic reviews you've given me! They're what inspired this (fairly?) speedy update. Unfortunately, I don't have a draft of the next chapter yet, so it might be a long time coming. 
> 
> Secondly, I hope you are all having a wonderful holiday season! Happy Christmas Eve specifically, but I want to wish everyone a good holiday regardless of whether you celebrate Christmas or not. I'll see you all (maybe??) in the new year with the next update. 
> 
> PS: This chapter was not proofread. I know I'm usually okay with proofreading and everything, but sorry! I just really wanted to get this out as a Christmas present to all of you.
> 
> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (Kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)

The winter was bitter.

The flowers in the garden were year-round, kept fresh and beautiful by magic, but they had now frosted over. The house was getting increasingly colder, despite the combined magical efforts of the entire family to keep it warm. Snow fell, and blanketed thick on the ground outside, relentless.

From her windowsill perch, Anneith peered outside, watching the crystalline flakes settle below her. Winter was no one’s favorite season on the northeast coast of the island. Whereas the winter could manage to bring the southern lands back to a tepid equilibrium, the northeast was attacked with storms and ice.

Anneith returned to her book, turning the page. She had paused for so long that the thin paper had become wrinkled from her moist palms.

Yulemas was quickly approaching. That meant that the master and mistress of Leander would (begrudgingly) allow the servants to take time off to celebrate—leaving the house silent. Usually, it was one of her favorite times of the year (in spite of the murderous weather). She would read, and no one would bother her.

But with that cursed deadline hanging above her head, and Caitriona . . .

Yulemas was no longer a holiday to be enjoyed, but another hallmark of how rapidly her freedom was running out.

“Hello.”

Her head snapped towards the door. Standing there was her sister, eyes weary, leaning against the frame.

“Caitriona, I . . . wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know. I just . . . I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Me?”

Caitriona took a tentative step forward, over the threshold. “I . . . wanted to see how your dinner went.”

“Oh.” Anneith was unsure of what to say. “It went well.”

“Oh. I’m glad.”

“So am I.”

Both averted their gazes, and Anneith was warring with herself. Her instincts told her to pounce on Caitriona, investigate every emotion, every event. Her logic told her no.

So she remained quiet, and waited for her sister to speak.

She didn’t.

“Do . . . “ Anneith took a deep breath. _Fuck the logic._ “Do you want to talk about it?”

Caitriona raised her head, and now she could see just how exhausted, how taxed she had been. How badly the news had taken its toll on her. The circles under her eyes were a dark gray, and her skin was pale. Her hair hung in limp strands, her back bent. It was as if all of the life had been drained out of her.

Her sister fell to the floor, crossing her legs underneath her. Her eyes stared at the fireplace in front of her.

 _Sitting,_ Anneith had to tell herself. _She’s fine. She’s just sitting._

“We’re immortal, aren’t we, Anneith?”

Startled, but cognizant of what she was trying to segue into, she said, “It . . . well, it’s a bit of a misnomer, I suppose. We aren’t immortal . . . death comes to everybody. But we do lead remarkably long lives.”

“Long lives,” laughed her sister hollowly. “You would think, with all of our long lives, we’d find a way to preserve ourselves.”

“Cai—”

“Find a way to fix all of our problems, yes? Make ourselves into better beings.”

“Cait—”

“No. No. Millennia of immortals, and no one’s realized that we’re no better than the other species we look down on? That life is wholly unfair and that death is the only certainty and that even when you get the chance to live, your life isn’t yours? That bad things always find paths to the best people, and that the worst people are never punished?”

“There’s . . . there’s good—”

Caitriona turned, eyes boring into her. “Good in the world?”

“ . . . yes.”

“All that good,” Caitriona spat, her eyes now aflame. “All that good, and we still harm and hurt and slaughter. What good, Anneith, will that good do you now?”

 

~*~

 

She was wrong about Yulemas.

“What is this?” Anneith hissed to Aislin, watching hordes of immortals dance and cheer and laugh. In Grainne square, stands had been set up, laden with food and wine. Even little children ran around, laughing, cheeks stuffed with candy.

“It’s a celebration, Anneith. You’ve never seen one?”

“I thought they weren’t celebrating this year. Because of the snow.”

Aislin snorted. “Please. You think a little bit of ice will deter these fools?”

Anneith was exhausted. The past few days had been hellish. Caitriona had stomped out of her room, drunk on her own anger. And it had left the elder sister with no shortage of fear and heartache.

“Ooh, look!” Yanking her hand, Aislin dragged her through the crowd. “They’ve got a spiced wine stand!”

Anneith relented, knowing that she would never win against the far more stubborn female.

Aislin was startlingly fast for a female in five-inch heels on a cobbled road. Rushing up to the vendor, she squeaked, “Two cups, please.”

Taking the cup from her friend begrudgingly, Anneith looked out from their position at the edge of the square. It was a violently icy night, and yet the entire town was out. _Crazy immortals._

“I know you’re upset about Caitriona.”

Anneith snorted. “Upset doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Aislin swirled the spiced wine in her cup, silent for a few, hesitant moments. “Anything she said in particular, or . . . ?”

“Caitriona isn’t the type to share.”

“Yes .  . .” Her friend gave a soft word of agreement, taking another sip from her cup.

Anneith watched as the steam escaped from her own wine, disappearing into the crowd of people milling around. A couple was kissing underneath a small garland of berries. The male running the spiced wine stand was managing the large barrels heating the drink. Another vendor was gesticulating wildly, attempting to get an elderly female to buy his hairbrushes.

It was unfair, this—that she would be sitting here, out in the cold but among friends, no less. And that Caitriona would be sitting at home, alone, mourning her loss. It was unfair that Caru and his wife, innocents that they were, would fall prey to the same cycle of savagery that had ruled their race for millenia.

 _It was unfair, it was unfair, it was unfair,_ the wind around her sang.

“Anneith!”

Startled at her friend’s cry, her head snapped up to look at Aislin, who had jumped up, eyes wide with horror. “Are you alright? Do you need help?”

“What—” Anneith followed Aislin’s eyes as they roamed over her body, and caught sight of her skin.

Her burning, red, blistering skin.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Even as she stared at her mottled scarlet flesh, she couldn’t. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

The vintner from the stand was suddenly standing behind Aislin, gaping at Anneith. “Are you alright, miss? I—I have no idea what happened, the entire keg just tipped over, and I—”

_Keg?_

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” muttered someone behind her. “It just—it just tipped over. Just like that.”

On the ground, next to her, were the remains of the vintner’s wooden keg. From the looks of it, it had burst open, somehow, crashing onto the cobbles.

“Is anyone here a medic?” Shouted Aislin, visibly panicking.

“I’ll take care of it.”

A chill went down Anneith’s spine as the owner of the voice came into view.

Hellas offered the crowd a soft, almost charming smile. “You can go back to your activities now. I’ll heal her, no worries.”

He was her new burn. It was him this time that she couldn’t stop staring at.

Aislin had stiffened, eyes narrowing on the god. She didn’t know that it was Hellas himself, Anneith was sure. But Aislin was suspicious. And hot-headed.

“Who even are—”

“—Aislin, it’s alright. We . . . we know each other.” Anneith didn’t dare look at the god as she spoke to her friend. “I’ll be fine. Just . . . let someone down at the house know.”

Aislin’s eyes were still narrowed. “Will you be long?”

“It depends on how extensive her injuries are,” cut in Hellas smoothly, his voice soft and crisp.

She could sense the tension mounting. Any longer and Aislin would say something that the both of them would regret. “Aislin, _I’m fine_. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The young lady’s eyes flitted back and forth between Anneith and the tall, dark stranger. Capitulating at last, she nodded. “I . . . I’ll let Caoimhe know.” Aislin turned on her heel, and Anneith breathed a sigh of relief and she began to walk away.

Then, Aislin whirled around, charging back. “You,” she hissed, pointing a finger at the dark god. Anneith wanted to scream. “Take care of her.”

Hellas looked amused. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

Anneith waited, frozen, for some sort of retribution. Her heart pounded in her chest. Speaking to a god like that was enough to get you killed. Speaking like that to a god whose powers transcended the living world evinced a far more severe punishment.

The backlash never came. Aislin, still scrutinizing Hellas with every strand of pigment in her irises, seemed satisfied with his answer. Throwing a concerned glance over her shoulder at her friend, she began to trudge away, slipping through the cracks in the thick crowd until Anneith could no longer see her.

“Now,” said Hellas, and Anneith forced herself to look at him. His dark eyes seemed to gleam. “Shall we start?”

 

~*~

 

“We should stop meeting like this,” said the god conversationally as he examined Anneith’s wounds, kneeling in front of her.

He had winnowed them away to some sort of living room; at least, that was what it looked like.

Armchairs made a crescent around a large, crackling fireplace. Windows lined the wall left of the fireplace, frosted over with ice and snow. Soft light emitted from the erythraean flames, along with the other small candles that were scattered throughout the room. The house, however, despite obviously being familiar to Hellas, looked unlived in. There were no pictures or decorations on the mantle above the fire. Not even one hint of the holiday season. The house was almost bare, save for a few sad, wilting chrysanthemums.

She tried her best not to squirm as Hellas inspected her burns, eyes wandering further up as the angry marks also traveled up her body.

It seemed that again, her legs had taken the brunt of the impact. The hot wine from the keg must have spilled into her lap and trickled down her legs before the entire barrel tipped over and splashed onto her arms. Her torso remained spotless, thanks to her heavy winter coat.

She flinched as Hellas looked up at her, dark eyes boring into hers. “I’m sorry—” he said quietly. Gesturing again to her legs, he continued. “May I?” Noticing her quizzical stare, he explained, “Most of your worst burns are in this area—” he waved a hand around her right shin “—and healing them may hurt.”

“That’s—that’s alright.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Are you saying that because you’re truly unafraid or are you saying that simply because you’ve decided that I’m more terrifying than your bleeding flesh?”

“I—” she stammered. “No, I—I—I want to be healed.”

Gods, why, why, _why_ was he still staring at her?

His eyes narrowed slightly, but nodded. “Alright.”

She contained a shiver and a small cry as he wrapped his hands around her calf. His hands were cold and _burning_ on top of her wounds. And she was certain they hadn’t even started yet.

“Do you want to know?”

“W-what?” She shook slightly, unable to contain herself, as she looked back at him.

“Do you want to know when I start?”

“No.”

He nodded, eyes focused on her shin again. “That’s fine.”

_What was he waiting for?_

“So,” said the god, still seemingly examining her wound. “What brought you out on the town tonight?”

“My—my friend.”

“The same friend who told me off?” He laughed.

Anneith’s face burned. “Y—yes. I apolo— _aaahh!_ ”

All of the skin below her knees burned, tore, and shattered. It felt like a million little shards of glass had dug into her shin, tearing every single muscle that was there. She resisted the urge to grab at it, to pull away from Hellas, salvage what was left. A loud, high noise was erupting all around her, but her vision had gone so foggy that she couldn’t see anything.

Her vision went as black as death itself, and she pitched forward, limbs crumpling underneath her.

 

~*~

 

“Well,” said a smooth, cold voice. “That was quite unexpected.”

“What did you expect, then, you dingbat?” Snapped another voice, this time female. “She’s not one of us! She’s fragile.”

“Our bodies aren’t that different.”

“They are when someone’s just had a gallon of boiling wine spilled on one of the thinnest skinned parts of the body! Honestly, what were you thinking?”

Silence, and then a scoff. “In the name of the Great Goddess, you idiot. You absolute idiot.”

Anneith went limp as she felt herself being picked up in someone’s arms. The same deep voice rumbled from somewhere very close to her, “Don’t worry yourself. I’ll see to it that she’s brought home.”

“You better,” replied the female voice, still cross. “And be back by Yulemas Eve. You know how obnoxious Lumas can be on his birthday.”

She was slipping again, her head like mush as she let out a soft moan of pain. The arms around her tightened, and the female voice, now interwoven with worry, hissed, “Hurry!”

 

~*~

 

She awoke in her bed.

Her mind was frozen, completely blank. How had she gotten here? Why did this feel strange, to be in her own bed again?

Bracing her hands on her sheets as her head spun a little, she scooted off her bed, feet landing solidly on the floor. Her joints snapped as she walked, unsteadily.

Her curtains were closed, which was not out of the ordinary, but she would have never drawn them shut all the way. And not so hastily that the curtains were jumbled and overlapped.

Her fingers grasped the hem of the fabric and tugged. She winced as the blinding light hit her eyes, but through the pain she could make out the glowing, untainted blanket of snow on the ground.

And the decorated tree in the front yard.

She yelped as she put two and two together. Was it Yulemas Day? No, it couldn’t have been, surely not. She had no idea as to what had happened to her, but last she could remember, it certainly was not Yulemas Day. Or even Yulemas Eve.

“Anneith!”

Magic sparked at her fingertips as she whirled around, jittery and on guard. But there only stood Caoimhe, eyes wide with concern. And apprehension as she took in her lady’s wild appearance—and unsteady, raw power. As admittedly unmagical as the maid truly was, the aura of the room was unmistakably thrumming with energy.

The lady, slightly embarrassed, lowered her fingers. “Hello.” Her voice was scratchy raw, and her throat felt like it was on fire as she greeted Caoimhe.

Caoimhe hurried over. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Caoimhe seized Anneith’s arms, practically controlling them as if she was a doll.

Anneith swatted at her. “Caoimhe, my head is clear. My body is fine. Nothing is wrong.”

Caoimhe paused, grip still tight on her charge but eyes more hawkish than ever. “Do you know how many days you spent in bed, Anneith?”

“A week?” Anneith’s mind was still betraying her.

The attendant pursed her lips. “Twelve days.”

“ _Twelve days?_ ” Her heart pounded wildly. “ _Twelve days?_ ”

Caoimhe nodded. “We were all worried, Anneith. I heard gossip in the kitchen that you were on the brink of death. Aislin cried herself dry.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“It’s a tale for another time,” she said firmly, and returned to trying to push Anneith back into bed. “For now, _rest_. I don’t need your parents coming back on their excursion to find you tripping all over the place.”

“They’ve gone already?”

“It’s Yulemas Day today. They left three days ago.”

“Caoimhe, please,” Anneith begged as the attendant tried to smother her with blankets. “I need to know what happened.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You truly don’t remember any of it?”

“I—I remember being outside before Yulemas. That’s it.”

“Nothing after that?”

“No. Not at all.”

Caoimhe took a deep breath. “First, you get under those blankets. Then, you eat a proper meal. And then perhaps I’ll tell you.”

~*~

 

“I’ll never forget it,” said Caoimhe as she surveilled Anneith taking meager spoons of soup. “That night.”

Anneith moved her foot impatiently. “In which . . .?”

“It was terrifying, Anneith.” She took a deep breath. “That night, the night you came back like this, you had gone out with Aislin. The both of you went to Grainne Square to see the Yulemas specialty stands.”

“Alright.” A memory, plucked out of the depths of gods knew where, of Aislin’s brown eyes alight with delight at the sight of the square decked out in lights, emerged hazily.

“To hear Aislin tell it, you were both sitting on a bench drinking wine when, out of nowhere, the

vintner’s entire barrel fell and smashed onto your lap. A stranger came up to you both—a stranger that _you apparently knew,_ and offered to heal you. You reassured Aislin that it was alright, and—Anneith? Anneith!”

_“I’ll take care of it.”_

_A chill went down Anneith’s spine as the owner of the voice came into view._

_Hellas offered the crowd a soft, almost charming smile. “You can go back to your activities now. I’ll heal her, no worries.”_

Hellas.

Hellas.

Hellas.

“Anneith!”

“What happened after that,” Anneith’s voice was shaky, raw. “ _What happened after that?_ ”

“Aislin doesn’t know. You went off with the stranger, and Aislin headed home. Then . . .” Caoimhe hesitated. “It was half past midnight. Almost everyone had gone to bed. I was cleaning up in the kitchen when someone pounded on the door, frantic. It was Aislin, dragging you, looking as white as a ghost. You looked dead, Anneith.”

The lady watched on, startled as tears began to form in Caoimhe’s eyes. “Aislin was incoherent as we sent everyone out to find a healer. She kept screaming, crying that it was her fault. We were terrified.

“Finally, a healer arrived and we were shocked. He said that you were absolutely fine. Not a scratch on you. No sign of any disease, any wound, any . . . _violation._ ” Her voice shook on the last word. “He couldn’t figure out why you were unresponsive. Nothing would make you wake up. No aroma, no salt, no spice. Caitriona . . . Caitriona came into the kitchen, awake from all the commotion, and almost threw herself over you. She thought you were dead.”

“Caitriona?”

Caoimhe shook her head. “That poor girl. She’s been shocked so many times recently, as have you. When will it end?”

“Was . . . was there anything else?”

Caoimhe’s eyebrows knitted together. “The strangest thing happened. Even now, even that night that she brought you in, Aislin swears she can’t remember what your stranger looked like.”

Hellas.

“Do you, Anneith?”

_I wish I didn’t._

What could she say? _Oh no, Caoimhe, it’s just that the god of death seems strangely taken with me. Oh no, we’ve just met a few times. Oh no, he’s just a weird stalker that I have no idea how to deal with._

“I know you’re keeping secrets, Anneith.” The attendant’s voice was gentle, and Anneith’s eyes snapped up. Caoimhe wore a look of pity on her lovely face. “I just hope that you don’t get yourself into more trouble.”

~*~

 

Anneith slept for five hours.

When she awoke, her room was dark save for one candle on her bedside table. Picking up the holder with a loud _scchrtch,_ she changed into her daywear before trudging downstairs.

She paid far too little thought to it.

Because when she walked into the dining room, a chorus of cries greeted her.

Aislin, Caoimhe, and Caitriona all gaped—and then screamed at her varying things.

Aislin was first, tears spilling over onto her cheeks as she shook Anneith violently. “I thought you were done for! I thought you were dead! I thought—oh!” She threw her arms around Anneith, squeezing violently. “Please, please, please, never do that again.”

Next was Caoimhe, her face back to its motherly scowl. “You’ve just recovered and you’re already running around? Back to bed right after this. No protests.”

Lastly was—

“Oh,” Anneith murmured as her younger sister planted herself firmly in front of her.

It was clear that Caitriona had been crying, eyes scarlet and puffy. But she said nothing as she stared at her older sister, unblinking.

It was them but not “them.” It had always been them against the world, but where was the “them” now? Gone, lost, broken, somewhere between a birthday party and a lover’s death.

Then, suddenly—

—Caitriona surged forward, tears dripping into Anneith’s shoulder as she sobbed and hugged her, rambling wildly. “Please, please, please, Anneith, I—I—I’m—I’m so sorry, please, please, please—”

“—you—you don’t have anything to be sorry for,” whispered Anneith fiercely. “Nothing.”

“But—but I—”

“—this is no one’s fault,” said Anneith firmly, the authority in her tone surprising even herself. But one glance around their little circle, at Aislin’s still-wide eyes and Caoimhe’s suppressed sob, and to the girl crying in her arms, and—

“—it’s Yulemas after all,” she said brightly. “Why not eat some food and open some presents?” She paused. “On second thought, maybe don’t do the latter part. I was a little too busy being fake dead to buy you all presents.”

A strangled laugh fought its way out of Caoimhe’s throat, and the three of them settled in the sitting room, under the light of the candlelit tree laden with ornaments.

 

~*~

 

Aislin had gifted her an opal jewelry set, over expensive—in true Aislin form. Caoimhe had given her a new journal, and Caitriona a new set a fountain pens topped with gold.

Anneith smiled to herself as she set her presents down on her desk, siphoning off some of her magic by setting glowing orbs of light afloat in order to illuminate her room. Sighing, she reached for her nightgown, and was about to change when—

—no.

Hands shaking, she could barely bring herself to touch the folded note.

Even without his physical presence, the power rolling off of the cream colored paper was unmistakably not mortal.

 _Come to me,_ it whispered. _Come to me._

Anneith swallowed her fear.

_My dearest Anneith,_

 

_The most grievous apologies for what happened the night we met again. I did not intend for such_

_a thing to happen. You may never believe me, but I truly intended to heal you. There was no_

_ulterior motive on my part to ever harm you._

 

_I have been informed that you are safe and sound in the comfort of your friends and family. It was all I could hope for._

 

_And although you may never want to see or speak to me ever again, I need to see you. Desperately._

 

_What happened that night, in the square, was something unnatural. The reason I was drawn there was because I sensed something about to happen. And I believe it was linked to you. My magic led me to the square, to the vintner’s stand. I waited there for almost an entire day before you appeared and the wine burned you so severely that much of your skin was beyond ordinary immortal healing._

 

_I suspect you have also sensed something wrong. I ask you now to reconsider me, and this scenario. Meet me in the cafe three days from now, and bring the largest opal in the collection that your friend has just gifted you._

 

_Or do not. It is up to you._

 

_Yours,_

_Hellas_

 

_Postscript:_

 

_Merry Yulemas. The book is from my library. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I did._

 

Hands still shaking, she picked up the spine. It was not in a language she knew, but she could make out the title.

_Deirdre an Bhróin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit my Tumblr for more: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Psst! I just posted headcannons about Aedion's mother and Gavriel, which can be found [here!](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/post/168883054292/alethea-ashryver-headcannons-aedions-mother)


	8. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope all of you had a good New Year's Day! It's back to school for me, unfortunately. But hey, at least I finished a chapter of LOTC! The pacing of this chapter is a bit off, I know. But hopefully it still makes sense. 
> 
> Also, I finally decided to add a character guide—it's at the beginning of this fic. 
> 
> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)  
> Malachy (mal-uh-KAI)

Why was she here?

Why, why, why?

Anneith’s foot jittered as the waiter finally set down a cup of espresso in front of her. The liquid sloshed around from her jerky movements.

“The cafe” could only be referring to the cafe where she had made a fool of herself in front of him. Although, by this point, practically every location in her life had been tainted by their encounters.

She shifted and squirmed, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Hellas hadn’t specified a time, but if he had waited in Grainne Square for an entire day, she suspected that he would know when she would arrive.

But it had already been more than half an hour, and no sign of the dark god had appeared.

She had started to wonder if it had all been a joke. After all, he had more reasons than the mere fact that she was a lowly immortal to avoid her now; it was her that had bled all over him, made him rescue her.

If she was him, she certainly wouldn’t want anything to do with herself.

“There you are.”

Her head snapped up, reflexes tight. The dark god chuckled. “It’s just me.”

She didn’t know what to do. Swallowing her panic, she stared at the ground, waiting for him to speak first. His chair scraped against the cobbles, and she heard him sigh as he dropped into his seat. A brief breeze alerted her to the presence of a waiter, hurrying over.

“A cappuccino, please.”

Only the chatter of other customers remained as the waiter scampered away, and still Anneith did not look up.

“I owe you answers.”

Her fingers curled around the arms of her chair, searching for anchor. Yes, he did owe her answers. But she hadn’t expected him to volunteer them like he seemed to want to.

“I tried to heal you that night.” A gust and a clink as the cappuccino was set down. “But I know you suspected that I had . . . ulterior motives.”

 _How ulterior?_ Her heart pounded.

“It’s true,” he continued. “That gods do not typically take an interest in the lives of immortals such as yourself.”

 _Myself,_ she almost scoffed. There it was, that superiority complex she had expected. Long delayed, but present nevertheless.

“But if you had seen yourself that night, your interest would have been piqued too. It was true, what I wrote, that had you been left to your own healers, you might have never recovered. Your injuries were too severe. I . . . empathized with you. I wanted to heal you, but I also wanted to see what had led to your burns, why the barrel had toppled the way it did.” His voice had hitched, hurried, and then smoothed out again. “I was there in the square almost all day. I didn’t know what I was looking for; all I knew was that there was a burst of power that I had never felt before. It led me to _you_.”

Her heart was beating so hard that she was afraid it would give out.

“What is the last thing you remember?”

Her entire body tensed as she finally looked up, but not yet meeting his eyes. “I-I remember snippets of that night. But not after . . . not after I went with . . . w-with you.”

He nodded, as if expecting it. Tracing the rim of his cappuccino cup, he let out a lengthy sigh. “Allow me to retell that night, then.”

So she listened. She listened to how he had brought her to a nearby house. How he had attempted to heal her. How—

“At first, it seemed as if you had passed out from the pain. I expected it. Not even a god could withstand that sort of healing without some sort of consequence. But it became clear to me, very, very quickly, that it was much more than pain. You . . . your body was rejecting my magic.”

“Rejecting it?” The words flew out of her mouth before her mind could process the words. “H—how?”

Hellas shook his head grimly. “I don’t know. But as I poured more and more of my power into you, your body began to fight back. Your burns spread, and your gashes tore beyond their original borders. It was like . . . it was like your body would rather kill itself than accept me.”

_Your body would rather kill itself than accept me._

She could feel her breath come in short gasps now.

Hellas leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “Breathe.”

She inhaled sharply at his command, and let out a weak noise, forcing herself to speak. “There . . . it . . . it wasn’t just you that night, was it?”

Hellas withdrew his lips, in silent contemplation. “No,” he said finally. “No, it wasn’t. Silba was also there.”

Anneith could feel her eyes widening. “Silba?”

Great Goddess, had every single god been privy to her failures?

“I had never seen anything like what you did that night,” said Hellas fiercely. Not defensively, but tightly. “And the problem, Anneith, is that not even _Silba herself_ knows what you were doing that night.”

_Not even Silba herself._

Gods, she was going to vomit. She was going to hack up the bubbling remains of her breakfast onto possibly the most dangerous god of all time.

 _“Breathe,”_ Hellas hissed. “Breathe, Anneith, you will be fine.”

She nodded, trying to get her breath under control. She croaked out after the eighth second, her voice scratchy and cracked—

“Am I broken?”

Her throat ached, and her entire face was burning. Fuck, was she really going to cry like an infant in front of Hellas, death itself? The patrons of the cafe were already staring at her, whispers flying everywhere about the recluse daughter of the Leander.

Hellas leaned forward, eyes boring intently into hers. His voice was low and hard as he spoke. “No, Anneith. You are not broken. There is nothing wrong with you.”

“But—”

“—did you know,” he interrupted, “that I was the last of the seven original gods to manifest? Before me, their universe was a paradise. In it existed only them, living happily amongst the bountiful milk and honey.”

She listened, blinking rapidly as she tried to stop weeping.

“But before long, they discovered something was not right. Their utopia was merely a sort of watchtower, another realm, and the Great Goddess had destined them to preside over not themselves ,but the other races of the world. Humans, Fae, witches, immortals, and many more.

“War broke out like it always does. But without me—without death, rather—no one was dying. Injuries were healed, good and evil patched up. My brothers and sisters despaired. The Great Goddess must have seen the conflict as well.

“And so I emerged into a world that did and did not want me. The war raged for centuries even after I made my presence clear, because none of the others trusted me. They feared that if I was allowed to live, to claim my birthright, I would find a way to kill them as well. My powers were different from theirs.

“But, Anneith,” Hellas reached out fingers gently tipping her chin up. An unreadable look in his eyes flashed before he drew back. She gripped the edge of her table for support, her mind warring with itself. “I did not have a place. I did not need the others to accept me, to give me a seat at their table.”  

His eyes were stormy as he spoke.

“I made my own.”  

 

~*~

 

Her head was still whirling as they walked up Pelleas Cliff. The wind whipped her hair, sending the dark strands flying all around her face.

“Did you bring the opal?” Asked Hellas, hands in his pockets, somehow unruffled.

Anneith reached for her face, hastily swiping at a piece of hair that had been caught in her mouth. She reached into her satchel. “Yes.”

The large stone hung on a gold chain, no doubt the most expensive one in the shop. Veins of varying colors ran through the already cream colored base. It had been cut and polished into an oval, meant to be worn as a statement piece.

Her heart felt heavy as she dropped it into Hellas’s outstretched hand. No type of jewel came cheap, especially not when it was one as large as that. Aislin had enough money to buy the island almost threefold, but an opal like that . . . would likely cost something akin to Caoimhe’s entire salary for ten years.

She shivered as another gust of wind swept over her. Folding her arms, she watched as Hellas inspected the jewel. “Wh—what are we doing here?”

Apparently satisfied, he turned back to her. “This cliff sits on top of one of the entrances to the Underworld.”

She stepped back, alarmed.

“What?” Her heart pumped weakly, as if asking her to stop landing herself in stressful situations. “You want—I—You want me to go into the Underworld.”

It wasn’t a question. The Underworld was a realm that no living being belonged in. At all.

Few who entered came back.

None the same.

Hellas nodded. “Yes.”

“And—and—there’s an entrance right below us?”

He waved an arm. “Oh, there are entrances all over the world, across each realm. Your island is just part of one of the realms. There are entrances in the human world, in the Fae areas, even across the sea where the darker beings live.”

“But it’s—it’s right under us?”

“Close.”

Her heart sank as he pointed into the distance.

Not at the cliff.

But into the Endless Sea.

“No,” she blurted out. “No.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Could you clarify?”

“I—I mean—I—I don’t know how to swim, I—”

“—you don’t need to know how to swim. In fact, you really don’t _need_ to know anything.”

“What . . . how are we going to enter, then? Not through the water?”

“Oh, no, we’re going through the water.” Hellas began walking towards the edge, and she could only scramble to follow him. “I had actually hoped that we would have a little more time to find another entrance, but it’s a good distance from here.”

She met his pace. “Why were you hoping for a different entrance?” The words were out of her mouth before she decided that she didn’t want to know.

They had reached the end of the grass, the wind silent around her. Hellas turned to her. “Please don’t break into hysterics.”

She nearly rolled her eyes. “I won’t _break into hysterics_.”

“This entrance has a charylla defending it.”

 _“What?”_ Manners, politeness, ranking be _damned_ , because— “ _a charylla_?”

She was panicking just thinking about it. Few charylla existed, and she had no idea that any of them lived on Divine Island. Many of them had long wandered into the deeper, darker recesses of the ocean—although she had heard once that a famous sailor traveling home had lost nearly half his crew to one. Charallyas weren’t picky about what they ate: rocks, fish, immortals. Each other.

A whirlpool with teeth—that was the best way to describe a charylla.

Hellas scratched his head, almost apologetically, although the steeliness came back into his eyes a moment later. “This is the only entrance on the island that I don’t have full access to.”

“And you decided,” said Anneith, already beginning to hyperventilate. “That we would enter through an entrance that is guarded by a monster that could eat both of us.”

“That is a possibility.”

“So how, _how_ , do you propose we circumvent it?”

He took a deep breath, and she knew the answer before he even opened his mouth. “We’re not going to.”

If the mythology was correct, the only way through a charallya was through . . . it. A charallya was a whirlpool on the surface, but underneath was its long neck. Legend had it that the neck was long because the rest of the body lay on the bottom of the sea floor. Hypothetically, one could avoid the charallya’s large mouth and dive through the edge of the whirlpool.

It was more likely that Anneith would become a goddess than face a charallya and survive. No one, _no one_ , had lived through the monster’s stomach and lived to tell the tale. Which was why—

“—no. No. _Really_ , this time.”

Hellas stilled. “Anneith—”

“How are you going to get past it?” She asked flatly.

“I know the approximate location of its mouth. We drop the opal as an offering, and dive down at the same time. It comes up to eat the opal, we go through another part of the whirlpool as it goes for the opal, and we pass through.”

“We’re more likely to end up in its digestive tract than get through.”

“Well, then that might be a quicker way to the Underworld.”

“No!” She said vehemently. “My life might be shitty as fuck, but being eaten or boiled alive in a charallya’s stomach is much, _much_ shittier.”

“Anneith,” he said quietly, and reached out to grab her wrist. His fingers encircled it, surprisingly warm.

She looked up to meet his dark gaze.

“This might be the only way to find out what you really are.”

She slipped out of his grip and wrapped her arms around her chest. “Why?” She demanded.

He shifted slightly. “There is—was—a prophet by the name of Malachy. He died about a millenium ago.”

“You want,” said Anneith slowly. “To risk being eaten by a charallya to talk to a dead prophet?”

“You know that Malachy is much more than your typical three mark alleyway medium.”

It was true. Malachy had been one of the most famous prophets in history. He had been sought after from all corners of the island, bartering in silver, gold, and secrets. At the age of thirty, he had become the richest immortal alive. And then he was murdered by his lover, jealous that he had taken another.

“And you think that he can tell me why I’m . . . like this?”

Hellas nodded.

Anneith stared out into the distant, unending waves.

To entrust her fateto the slim possibility that they would be able to outrun a monster three thousand times bigger than them—no sane person would ever make that choice.

But no part of this was sane anymore. And if doing this one thing would return her to peace, then—

“—I’ll . . . I’ll do it.” Before she could ponder too long, before she let her logic overtake the power humming in her veins, she turned to look at Hellas. He nodded.

Together, they stood at the edge. Both of them took one last look at the opal before Hellas drew back his arm and launched it into the sea.

She barely had time to register the stone’s disappearance before Hellas grabbed her hand, wrapped an arm around her, and pitched them both forward, into the darkening waves.

 

~*~

 

She was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Then, a noise.

Louder than she had thought possible.

It reverberated from the depth of the sea, traveling up onto the surface.

She didn’t even have time to scream as the charallya burst up, its mouth circle after circle after circle of monstrous teeth and waves. It seemed to twist again and again as it emerged, something awful and something abstract. Her eyes were wide as she watched the monster rise to almost the full height of the cliff, its body indiscernible except for the churning waves and _oh, gods, those teeth._  

Somewhere near her, Hellas swore violently, and she quickly realized why.

They were too slow.

The opal had dived straight into the charallya’s mouth. One last, fleeting flash of beautiful rainbow before it was swallowed up by the whirlpool.

Along with much of the water in sight.

Charallyas ate, but they also filter fed when food was scarce. The water they consumed would sit in their bodies for hours at a time until all the food was gone, and then they would regurgitate it—causing high and low tides.

But they also consumed water—much, much larger quantities, in fact—when they came up to hunt.

This particular charallya had consumed so much water that the lower levels of Pelleas Cliff, typically hidden by the waves, were exposed.

If they continued at their own pace, they would crack their heads open on the hard stone below.

Life seemed to slow down, flash by flash. Her sister. Her parents. Caoimhe. Aislin. The charallya.

Hellas.

Hellas would survive, but she would not. Death on the rocks below was now more of a surety than a lifetime in the charallya’s stomach.

Her heart seemed to slow. Even though it shouldn’t have. She was calm, strangely so. Death was staring her in the face and she was chortling. To end this way, it felt almost triumphant.

But as tempted as she was . . .

She flung her arm out wildly, reaching for the god.

Before discovering that they were already entwined, his arms holding her securely.

There would be time to worry about that later.

Or never, depending on if she could do this.

Using all of her weight, she pushed her body against his chest, in the opposite direction. Towards the charallya and away from the rocks.

The razor-sharp teeth of the sea monster were the last things she saw before they broke through the water and she lost consciousness.

 

~*~

 

“Anneith,” someone was shaking her gently. “Anneith.”

Her fingers felt for something, and they sunk into something soft. Disturbingly soft.

Her eyes flew open, and she began coughing as her body purged the sea water from itself. She sat up, taking in her surroundings. Looking down at her hand, she recoiled and yanked it towards her.

They were in some sort of marshy wetland, brown and repulsive. The sky was dark, and she could discern no source of life anywhere near. Looking down at herself, she resisted a cringe as she stood up shakily, avoiding her now-soiled hands and attempting to wring out the muddy water that had now seeped into her clothing.

Hellas, to her irritation, looked fine. A little dirtied, perhaps, but much better than she felt. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

He pointed ahead, where a tiny, run-down cottage sat. “Malachy is probably waiting for us.”

She nodded, and they set off. Trudging and wading through dirt, mud, water, and gods knew what those dark little creatures that wiggled around in the swamp were. She shivered as she heard a vulture’s screech echo. This . . . this was nothing compared to the charallya.

The charallya could have been the end of her. Chomp, chomp, goodbye. In an instant.

But the Underworld felt like drowning in quicksand. Slow, suffocating, and impossible. She could feel the eyes of everything on her. The vultures, the bugs—she could have sworn even the browned and dying grass felt deadly.

“That was impressive.”  

Her eyes snapped up. Hellas shrugged. “I didn’t have time to react. I forgot about the charallya’s need to swallow water.”

“Are you . . . “ she was unsure how to phrase it. “Complimenting me?”

“I suppose,” he said, his voice a low grumble. “It doesn’t happen often, so treasure this memory.”

She rolled her eyes. “I will.” She turned towards their route again. “Is—are we in the punishment area?”

The Underworld was a mystery to all. _The best-kept secret,_ Caoimhe had once contemplated out loud. _The only one that everyone and no one wants to know._

Hellas laughed. “Zones, is that how you picture it?”

Heat crept up her cheeks. “Is that not how it is structured?”

Hellas considered her question as he dusted off a piece of dried dirt on his shirt cuff. “In a way. Some areas are designated for certain people, but only the truly detestable ones. Most beings who enter are given back only their living possessions.”

“So if they lived in a crumbly cottage, they would live in that same crumbly cottage?”

“Yes.”

“The whole concept of redeeming yourself is a scam, then.”

Hellas’s lips quirked. “I wouldn’t call it a _scam_ , per se. Some beings are elevated because of what they did to better themselves and others. There’s your redemption. Some beings are punished because of what they did to hurt others. But the truth is, most beings stay well within a certain boundary as to what kind of reward we can give them or take away. Most of them are simply . . . not to be coarse, but unremarkable. Even in the cases we do add or take, most of it is in small amounts.”

“And him?” Anneith nodded towards the cottage, which was coming closer and closer. “Was he one of the people who were outside the boundary?”

Hellas grinned, the expression full of raw, violent satisfaction. “Very.”

~*~

 

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

The door of the cottage had been falling apart; it had been so termite eaten that the wood had been reduced to two thin planks. Both of which cracked when Hellas had pounded on the door.

A low voice emanated from the inside. “Enter.”

A sleek, slim figure was dressed in a suit, his back facing them as they stepped into the crumbling abode. “Your majesty,” said the male. “And Lady Anneith. I trust your journey here was pleasant?”

He turned, and Anneith restrained herself from gasping.

Malachy the Prophet had been known as one of the most handsome males of his time. But the male in front of her was far from it.

His face was scarred, slashes cutting it into five horizontal parts. No doubt these were the famous marks that his former lover had given him. But along with that, shorter cuts were scattered all over. His face, and all the exposed skin that his tattered suit revealed. With a sickening feeling in her gut, she realized why there were so many vultures outside.

“We’ve come to ask you a question.” No false banter, no greetings. Just business.

Malachy smirked, and it made his wounds stretch even wider. “About the Lady Anneith.”

Hellas scowled. “Yes.”

“What do I get in return?”

“You are the most famous prophet in the world, even today. The world is in awe of your talents. We are simply, _humbly_ , asking for a boon.”

Malachy paused, gray eyes wide and gaunt as he stared at Hellas.

He burst out laughing.

“You’re a good sweet-talker, Lord Hellas, I will admit that. But I need something . . . more concrete than sweet words.”

“I’ll rethink adding more vultures to your daily routine.”

“Mmh.” Malachy smiled. “I enjoy our talks, Your Majesty, but you should know by know that threats do not work on me.”

“I know you,” Hellas said flatly. “We give you something, you ask for more.”

He spread his arms, almost apologetically. “Well, that’s the nature of us immortals.” He winked at Anneith.

“You will give us the information,” hissed Hellas. “Or I will drag you into the deepest, darkest pit I can find and leave you to the crone.”

“Sorry,” chirped Malachy. “My lips are sealed.”

As they argued, Anneith looked around desperately for something, only to realize that she had left her satchel on Pelleas Cliff. The only thing that she had on her was her slimy dress. She typically wore no jewelry, no necklaces, no—

She felt around her jaw wildly, fingers creeping up. “Will these do?”

Both males stopped to see her stretch her arm out, two shining jewels in her palm.

They were her mother’s heirloom emeralds, a little damaged and dented from the sea and the charallya, but still shining. She had put them on this morning before she had left the house, unsure of how formal she had to look in front of Hellas. Malvolia had originally given them to her daughter when she had been young. Back when she had hope that Anneith would turn out the perfect daughter.

Oh, if her mother could see her now, trading her precious earrings for advice from a dead prophet.

Malachy came closer, and she could smell the stench rolling off of him. “Yes,” he murmured, analyzing the small jewels. “Cut from the Plains of Astrea, I see, hmm. Good structure, good—”

“—is it a deal or not?” She spoke sharply.

The prophet looked up at her. She resisted the urge to fidget as his eyes—and his exposed sockets—bore into her.

Malachy grinned. “Deal.” He swept his hand across hers, holding the emeralds in his fist. “What would you like to know?”

She turned back to Hellas, now seated in a crumbling chair, but he simply shrugged. She felt a small poke in her mental barriers. She acquiesced.  

_What should I ask?_

_Anything you want._ Hellas’s voice was surprisingly quiet in her mind, without the pounding force she had been expecting.

She cocked her head to the side. _You don’t want to know anything?_

He scowled. _I’ve had my fair share of Malachy’s prophecies over the years._

“Well, my lady?”

As she turned to Malachy, she felt another poke into her mind. Not Hellas. She glanced at the prophet, who quirked his lips. As if challenging her to push him out.

She repressed a smile as he stumbled back, breath catching as she slammed her mind against his. A warm sensation rushed into her body, and she heard Hellas’s sharp intake of breath from beside her. She turned to look at him, puzzled, but he only tilted his head towards Malachy, prompting her.

She took a breath, and stared into Malachy’s scarred face. “Why am I like this?”

He huffed. “You have to be more specific, my sweet.”

She pushed down a shiver at his nickname. “Why did I reject the healing that night?”

Malachy’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, you’re a special one, aren’t you?”

“Answer the question,” growled Hellas from behind her.

“I’m _analyzing_ ,” bit back Malachy, like a chastised child. He turned back to her, eyes narrowed. “That night wasn’t an isolated incident, was it?”

“W—what do you mean?” Her heart began to palpitate as she felt, from behind her, Hellas lean forward.

“Your magic has been acting up. It’s spiraling out of your control. Taking a life of itself. When you’re emotional.”

She could only nod. Malachy’s eyes crinkled with glee as he paced around the room. “A female of your standing, unstable? Oh, what fun this is!”

“What’s happening,” she asked, her voice hard. Refusing to look at Hellas.

Malachy stepped back, a little dance as he rocked on his heels. “Oh, you’re scared, aren’t you. Scared that you’ll be considered one of them, those poor souls who could never fully manifest.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t know why your power is behaving this way.”

There was a crash behind her as Hellas stood abruptly, knocking over a chair. “Answer. Her. Question.”

Malachy met his gaze evenly. Two powerful males. “Torture me all you want, Hellas, but you won’t get any answers out of me because _I don’t have them_.”

“How can you not know?” Anneith heard her voice shake.

He turned to her again, and she was shocked to see pity in his eyes. “You are . . . new. New, and old at the same time. My gift is . . . perplexed. It does not know what you are, or where you belong.” The weight of his words settled in the cabin, and she knew that he spoke the truth.

“Thank you, ” the dark god said shortly, rage simmering away. Ignoring the males behind her, Anneith walked, dazed, to the door.

“It’s been centuries since I last saw you face-to-face, Hellas,” said Malachy, his tone playful as they exited. “Shame what happened with Ravana.”

Anneith glanced back at Hellas, just in time to see him stiffen. He turned, as if to snap back at the prophet, but was greeted with the door slamming in his face. He was frozen for a moment, staring at the mottled wood, before descending the steps to join her.

They walked away in silence.

“Thank you.”

He looked at her in surprise. “For what?”

“For trying to help me.”

“I’m as disappointed as you are that I don’t understand why this is happening.”

“I’m not talking about your personal agenda.” She took a small breath. “Thank you for bringing me here, and doing all you could.” The words tasted foreign in her mouth, especially directed towards a god.

He shifted on his feet. “This . . . does not have to be the end the end if you don’t want it to be.”

“What?”

“Malachy may not know the answer, but he isn’t the only source of knowledge in the universe.”

“What are you proposing?”

He smiled grimly. “Libraries. Interrogations. All the information we can get on . . . what’s happening to you.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said, quietly. “You have better things to do than help a nineteen-year-old solve her personal issues.”

“This reverberates past you,” he said, his voice gentle.

“I don’t really see how. We came here for answers. If I was significant in any way—” she tried to keep her tone from becoming too bitter “—we would have received them.”

He stopped in his tracks, and Anneith halted as well. He turned to her, and as she looked up at him, she realized just how small she was compared to him. “Silba and I represent life and death. That night, you cheated us both. Tell me how that concerns only you.”

~*~

 

He insisted on walking her to the Leander.

When they had exited the Underworld (through a different exit, thank the gods), it was past midnight.

“I can handle myself,” she insisted, albeit a little weakly. She had already seen some unsavory males leering at her from the alleys.

He had merely quirked an eyebrow and offered his arm.

For something that was typically too formal and too intrusive at the same time, walking with Hellas, arm in arm, felt . . . she couldn’t place a word on it.

“Here we are,” she said as they came upon the kitchen entrance. There was only one candle lit, a sign that even Caoimhe had gone to sleep. Strange. She would have thought (without giving herself too much credit) that the attendant would have stayed up to see her return home. Disengaging herself, she turned to Hellas, curious. “Did you make them forget about me?”

“Not exactly. It’s the same kind of spell I use to prevent your townspeople from remembering who I am. Simple alternate memories. Your friends and family know you still, but they believe that you’re hiding in the library, reading.”

Heat crept up her cheeks. Even he knew that she had no social life? “Right. Um, well . . . “ she trailed off. “Good night.”

He nodded as she stepped onto the doorstep, opening the door. “Good night.”

She paused for a moment, even as she heard the grate of his heels on the cobbles. She turned back to see his figure retreating. “Hellas?”

He stopped, and turned back to face her, expression quizzical. “Yes?”

She withdrew her lips into her mouth for a moment, biting on them from the inside. Contemplating for a moment before she let them stretch into a soft smile. “Thank you for the Yulemas gift.”

 

~*~

 

It was too dark to see his reaction. But, if she had, she would have seen the matching smile that broke over the god’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit my Tumblr for more: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com)


	9. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pacing is definitely off in this chapter, so forgive me! Hopefully it'll be back to normal (or at least better) in the next chapter. 
> 
> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (Kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Bronwen (bron-WEN)  
> Edryd (ed-VER-d)

Anneith’s only regret was that she had never dragged Caitriona to one of Malvolia’s tea sessions.

Because her sister was a master at making others uncomfortable.

“Lady Caitriona,” began Lady Ealga. Anneith smirked into her tea at the clear discomfort in her voice, despite the pounding headache that was rapidly spreading through her body. “Your mother was telling us about your interest in fashion. Did you happen to see the latest spread from the Flatlands?”

Caitriona took a purposeful, constructed sip from her teacup. “I don’t happen to follow the latest trends of those who are more than ten times my age.”

Ealga’s cheeks reddened rapidly.

It had been Caitriona’s first day out in “public” since the ball nearly a month ago. Finally irritated by her younger daughter’s self-ostracization, Malvolia had forced Caitriona to attend afternoon tea. Which, judging by the strained look on her mother’s face, was a decision she was currently regretting.

“Fashion is forever, is it not, Lady Caitriona?” Lady Aurus leaned forward, amber eyes almost gold in the sunlight. Anneith shifted at the predatory glance.

Caitriona, however, remained undeterred. “Yes, but for us _younglings_ —” she smiled sweetly “—we don’t feel as if we have nearly enough time to spend on old trends as you might.”

Anneith could nearly see a vortex open in the center of the room and drain the air out. Malvolia’s cheeks were pink with anger and a tinge of embarrassment as she stared at Caitriona.

Anneith wished she had Caitriona’s same self-confidence, to fully ignore everyone’s opinions. To be unashamed of herself. To say whatever she wanted without fearing repercussions.

But she was not Caitriona.

Lady Glain cleared her throat. The mediator, as always. “Did you ladies happen to hear about the trouble across the sea?”

_Across the sea?_

The name was true, for the most part. The Endless Sea stretched on, seemingly forever. Sailors who had attempted to sail the waters returned decades, even centuries later. And none had tales of grand adventures like they had expected before they had set off.

All they knew was that something darker lurked past the confines of their little island and their little sea. Those who sailed and lived never came back the same.

“I don’t believe it,” declared Malvolia, sounding grateful for a topic she could weigh in on. “Those sailors could barely speak clearly.”

Anneith’s eyes met her sister’s across the table, and she gave the briefest of shrugs at her sister’s quizzical look.

_I have no idea what they’re talking about._

A roll of the eyes. _That’s disappointing._

_You ask, then._

“What happened?” Caitriona’s voice rang out.

“The latest sailors that sailed back from across the sea speak of dark things,” said Malvolia. “‘Beyond our wildest dreams—’or so they say.”

Glain shook her head. “My husband saw them in person. He says that he’s never seen beings as shaken as them.”

“We all know sailors are not reliable narrators. They are not narrators at all, except when they’re weaned off the bottle.”

“Malvolia—”

“—ladies, ladies,” interrupted Aurus brusquely. “Let’s not approach politics at the tea table!”

An overly-sheepish laugh burst from the group in small titters, and Anneith wanted to vomit.

“What is _your_ opinion on the whole matter, then, Lady Aurus?”

She stifled a cringe as her younger sister stared defiantly at Aurus.

Aurus merely shifted her leg, one over the other, so that she could face Caitriona. Anneith couldn’t help but shrink away as their eyes met. The power in the room sizzled and crackled, not magic-based, but pure _power._

Aurus gave Caitriona a smile, all of her teeth bared. “Well, _sweetheart_ ,” the word was clipped. “It’s not really my place to say, is it?”

“But if you had to?”

“I would decline.”

“Truly . . . truly no opinion, Aurus?”

The lady’s eyes flashed slightly at Caitriona’s neglect of her title. “Watch yourself, youngling.”

Caitriona leaned back. “It’s a simple question, Lady.”

The air was thick with tension, and it was no longer just Anneith who was feeling it. Glain had her knuckles gripping her teacup and saucer so tightly that Anneith was afraid they would crack. Ealga was hunched over, eyes wide.

“Caitriona,” said Malvolia, her voice trembling slightly. “I apologize, Aurus, she—”

“—no, Malvolia, it’s quite alright. As for your question, Caitriona—” Aurus gave a tight, preening smile to the younger lady. “—I don’t believe these sailors bring anything of value to the security of our island. They are merely attempting to stir up trouble. It shouldn’t be taken seriously. In my humble opinion, of course.”

Caitriona inclined her head. “Of course.”

Anneith exhaled as the conversation seemed to die down. How either of their heads were still on their shoulders was a miracle. She glanced towards the clock in the front, its pendulum swinging heavily back and forth. It was almost four o’clock, and this madness would be over.

“Lady Malvolia?”

Heads turned as Caoimhe entered, bowing her head in a submissive gesture to the lady of the house. “There is a guest at the door.”

“Ah, that must be Lady Bronwen. Show her in.”

Anneith could feel herself internally groaning already. Lady Bronwen? This far north? It was no coincidence.

Her parents hadn’t formally announced any sort of engagement to Edryd, although these visits were indication enough that their intentions were serious. For the time being.

She hadn’t forgotten her father’s careful diction to her, months ago.

_“Of course, we still have to work out some minor issues, but we should have some suitors at the ready by next Samhain.”_

Suitors. Plural. And now that she had Edryd’s family in the running, Samhain seemed more like a decision date than a planning date.

“Lady Malvolia, how _are_ you?” Anneith didn’t even have to look up to recognize the simpering, tittering, cloying voice of Lady Bronwen.

“I am well, Lady Bronwen, how are you?”

“Well, thank you for asking!”

Anneith caught Caitriona’s eye as Malvolia went around the room, introducing everyone.

Her sister cocked her head. _I feel sorry for you._

_Strangely enough, so do I._

“Anneith, darling!”

Her head snapped up, eyes meeting those of Lady Bronwen. “I—yes, Lady Bronwen?”

The lady’s lips pulled wide into a grotesque smile as she plopped down on the seat next to Anneith. “I was wondering, Anneith—” she flinched as Bronwen took her hand in hers, clammy and sweaty. “—Edryd is right outside . . . would you two like to spend more time together?”

“Yes,” Anneith blurted out. “I mean . . . yes. Of course.”

“Fantastic!” Bronwen beamed. “He’s waiting outside.”

“Right. Have a good day!”

Anneith hauled ass until she was out of the room, not risking the chance of being called back.

_Gods damn you, Anneith._

_I’ve been stranded with her for a year. It’s your turn, dear sister._

She could almost see Caitriona’s pout, and she smiled to herself as she hurried outside.

 

~*~

 

Edryd was leaning casually against one of the short columns that flanked the front stairs. He smiled at the sight of Anneith hurrying towards him. “My mother?”

She flashed him a grin, relieved to be away. “Who else?”

Edryd rolled his eyes. “How are you?”

“Good. Great, now that I’m away from that cursed tea party.”

Edryd grinned in solidarity and then gestured vaguely towards one direction. “To town, then?”

She fidgeted slightly. She hadn’t set foot in town for some time. Not since that night . . .

“Alright.”

The duo fell into a comfortable silence as they made their way towards Grainne Square, and Anneith stifled a short yawn. She felt . . . almost at peace. The revelations of two weeks ago still hung over her head, threatening to crush her. And she should have taken it less lightly, but the whole experience—of meeting Hellas, nearly being devoured by the charallya—seemed so surreal that she could scarcely believe it had actually happened.

“You seem distracted.”

“Hmm?”

Edryd had a gentle smile on his face. “Something on your mind?”

“What? Oh, no, no. Just . . . the usual, I suppose.”

“Ah.”

“What about you?”

The young lord took a deep sigh. “Well, my parents are bent on pushing me to every single eligible female on the island, my garden is dying, and Aengus seems strangely preoccupied with being almost nowhere near me.”

“You don’t have other . . . friends?”

Edryd raised an eyebrow. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Thinking that I’m amicable enough to have more than one friend.”

She burst out laughing, covering her mouth as two passerbys gave her a strange look. “Edryd!”

“It doesn’t get too lonely, so don’t feel so bad. I have two great friends in my life: Aengus and whatever plant seems to be flourishing in my garden at the given time.”

“What a fulfilling life.”

“Indeed. Although, Anneith,” Edryd stopped suddenly, turning towards her. “Aengus is my friends—and at this time of year, potatoes are, too—but I find myself fortunate enough to count you among my friends as well.”

Anneith blushed. “I’m honored . . . to be your friend, Edryd. And you should know . . .” she trailed off before regaining her cadence. “You are my friend as well.”

He smiled. “I’m glad.”

The rest of the walk was spent chatting away at the state of affairs on the island, politically and socially. Edryd was just as big of a gossip as his mother, although it only came out in snarky comments and dry humor.

“No!” She gasped. “He didn’t!”

“Yes,” Edryd said, nodding vehemently. “He did. He stood up, flipped the table, and threw the remaining pot of soup in the lady’s face. It was quite a scene.”

“But I thought his nephew was set to marry her?”

“He _was_ ,” Edryd chortled. “Until his uncle made it very clear he disapproved.”

They had come upon the square already. Some people were milling around, more now that the snow had cleared slightly. Anneith shivered as a familiar scent wafted over. Spiced wine.

Perhaps it was a bad idea to have come.

“Cafe?” Edryd suggested?

Anneith shook her head. All gods damned cafes were now ruined for her. “How about . . . the bookstore?”

 

~*~

 

“Have you read this one?”

Anneith peered over Edryd’s shoulder (not an easy task considering her short frame) at the novel in his hands. “Erm . . . yes! Yes, I have.”

He weighed the book in his hands. “Any good?”

She pursed her lips. “Um . . . no.” She gave him an apologetic smile.

He returned the book to the shelf. “Back to browsing, then.”

The bookstore smelled old, and full of wonder. That rich scent of old paper (and in some cases, even vellum) had Anneith giddy. This, _this_ was her home. Once, now, and forevermore. She could die being surrounded by books.

She ran her hands along the spines arranged on the shelf. Bookstores always had a different atmosphere than the library at Leander. Leander was home, despite everything. She knew the books like the back of her hand. Each page, each sentence, each word, was _hers_.

But here, in this store, anything was possible. Leander had every book within a hundred mile radius of the manor; but there was always a possibility . . . a new story, a new adventure. A new escape.

The two settled into a routine: Anneith would browse the shelves, looking for a new book and rereading snippets of already familiar ones; Edryd would browse, select a book, and then ask Anneith for a recommendation.

“Why don’t you head out of the war strategies section?” She said, yawning, as she rejected Edryd’s eighth book.

“I think the better question is,” Edryd sank into the seat next to her, mirroring his mother’s movements earlier that day. (Although he had none of Bronwen’s excessive charm, to be honest.) “Why do you keep snubbing my books?”

Anneith rolled her eyes. “Edryd, you’re too stubborn to move to different genres and too stubborn to read a book from an author whose views disagree with yours. This—” she picked up Edryd’s most recent selection “—is by Lord Cartney. You’ve heard of the Bluster of the Mountains?”

Edryd grimaced. “The battle, where a soldier led his troops into the heart of one of the Melisande Mountains and they all perished because they forgot to bring climbing gear?”

Anneith tapped the book. “Cartney was the soldier,” she said dryly, and then pushed the book against Edryd’s chest. “Pick a different one.”

He stood, grudgingly. “Was it at least any good?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Compromising, are we?”

Edryd looked down at the book, pensive for a moment. He looked back at Anneith before sighing. “No.”

She chuckled to herself as he trudged away to return it and turned back to her own book. It was a reread of one of her old favorites; about a princess who fell in love with a lion.

“Feeling angsty, are we?”

She froze as Hellas’s voice became louder, and she looked up to see the god standing before her, leaning casually against a bookshelf. “Sorry?”

He nodded towards the novel in her hands. “As I recall, no one ends up with their happily ever after in that book.”

She glanced down at the pages underneath her fingers. “They don’t have to.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“That you don’t like happy endings.”

“Am I supposed to?”

“No. It’s just that a fine young woman such as yourself seems to want more in her life and in her books than a star-crossed romance with a child born out of wedlock.”

“Why are you here, Hellas?”

Hellas apparently took that as a cue to sit, sighing as he folded his legs and turned to her. “I may have found more information on your . . . condition.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I spoke to a few . . . connections. They all agree that it’s a peculiar situation, but I dug up some information about it.”

“That’s . . . amazing. Thank you.” She paused. “So . . . what is it?”

Hellas looked around surreptitiously. “I’m afraid it’s too sensitive to be said here.”

She folded her arms. “Really? Because you essentially told me that I’m a new kind of immortal in the middle of a public cafe with the gossipiest beings I know and that wasn’t an issue for you.”

“Anneith, there is a real issue of privacy and information here.”

“Are you just trying to get me to nearly die again?”

“If I wanted you to die, you would be gone already. Besides, what do I possibly have to gain from killing you?”

“The eradication of a magical malady in society.”

“Anneith, love, you give yourself too little credit.”

She couldn’t do this. She shouldn’t have pushed him, shouldn’t have said anything. She just wished that . . .

Anneith stood, head feeling unsteady on her shoulders as she looked away. “Hellas, I just—”

“—I know.” She heard him stand. “Anneith . . . you don’t have to come along. You can keep living your life, ignore all of what has happened . . . go back to your date with that lovely young lord in the corner.”

She followed his gaze to Edryd, who had somehow gotten himself into an argument with the male working at the register over what looked like a copy of the exact same book they had been talking about moments before. But Hellas’s presence was too strong for her to focus on anything else. This space, these books, Edryd . . .

“I’m sensing a ‘but.’”

“If you walk away now, you lose the chance to figure out what is happening to you. And if you do, I can’t—forget the world at large. Forget all of that. Anneith, if you walk away now, no one can guarantee your safety. No one.”

She glanced at Edryd again, still acutely aware of the god behind her.

Hellas didn’t move as she walked away, feet carrying her rapidly.

Edryd turned his gaze upon her. “Anneith, what do you think of—”

“—Edryd, I’m sorry, I—I—need to go. I’m sorry, I’ll—I’ll write you? Later?”

She must have looked more frazzled than she thought, because Edryd furrowed his brow and nodded. “Oh. Uh, alright. I’ll see you soon.”

 

~*~

 

“Where are we going?” Anneith struggled to control her panting as they made their way away from town and across a clearing. Her heart sank as she caught sight of the thick, thorny, dark brambles that made up the Héloïse Forest. Eyes snapped down to her arms—pale, pristine—before she shook herself out of it.

“To a safe house.” He replied simply. “You’ll see.”

“A safe house? Through the forest?”

He glanced at her. “Oh. Yes, I’m afraid so. Unless you’d like to do this elsewhere?”

They had stopped at the edge, the dark shadow looming before them. She held back a gulp as she studied the gigantic black trunks that seemed to stretch into the heavens. There was little mythology surrounding the forest if she was honest with herself, but one could never be too sure. “We can’t winnow?”

“No. The wards were recently . . . strengthened. It stretches out in a mile-long radius.”

“Fine.” She took the first step, not waiting for Hellas. Damned if she’d let herself be the one snatched away by some monster because she lagged behind the leader. She heard a low chuckle come from behind her before the god followed.

“I’m sorry for pulling you away from your date like that.”

“It wasn’t a date,” she muttered, kicking a twig out of the way.

“It seemed like one.”

“He’s just a friend.”

“So not a suitor, then?”

She turned to look at him. “How did you know? Beyond the—” she waved her hand impatiently. “—obvious, I suppose.”

Hellas shrugged in a way that made Anneith want to scowl at him. “Your village is quite gossipy, is it not?”

This time she did scowl. “My mother?”

“She’s not easy to miss. She was raving about it to a friend of her, I think. At the vegetable stand the other day.”

“My mother doesn’t have any friends,” Anneith said bitterly. “I’m sure you can see that.”

“You mean that those same vapid females that she spends time with aren’t her friends?”

“They’re stepping stones, they’re—” she made a frustrated hand movement. “—nothing. They’re nothing to her.”

Hellas stuck his hands in his pockets, looking entirely too casual for their forest excursion. “Are you afraid, Anneith?”

“Of what?”

“Of becoming your parents.”

Her heartbeat raced ahead of her thoughts. It was a general statement, nothing special. Anyone could have said it. But coming out of Hellas’s mouth, watching him watch her as she struggled to formulate a response . . .

“I—”

Hellas looked at her with something akin to pity in his eyes before he pointed ahead of them. “We’re here.”

 

~*~

 

The house was familiar. Hazy, but familiar.

Too familiar.

She hadn’t even stepped over the threshold before she whipped around. “Is this—”

“—yes. This is—this is where I brought you the night you—well, _that night._ ” Hellas gestured vaguely in the direction of the interior of the house. “Take a seat.”

Hesitantly, Anneith removed her coat and followed the god. They came upon a living room—now, _this_ she remembered.

Hellas sat across from her, and she resisted the urge to squirm under his assessing gaze. Finally, he nodded towards the fireplace. “Light it.”

She blinked at the abrupt shift in conversation. “What?”

“Can you light the fireplace?”

“Are . . . are you testing me?”

“I talked to a few additional scholars. Nothing specific, of course. But they all agreed that the quickest way to evaluate your skills is to set you tasks. Small magic, building up to larger exercises. The hope is that through these, we can more easily separate and break down what the root of your abilities are.”

“I thought you said you had information. Important information.”

“This is the information.”

“You pulled me away to ask me to perform tasks a six-year-old could also achieve?”

He smiled wryly at her. “It was a precaution. In case . . .”

She sighed. “In case I spontaneously combust. Alright.”

He gestured at the cold hearth. “After you, my lady.”

Perhaps she was not as gifted with physical magic as her sister was, but lighting a fire took little energy. One spark from her fingertips, and the wood was alight. She exhaled, taking in some of the sunset warmth before turning back to Hellas. The god was studying her intently, something unreadable in his eyes. “Well?”

“Let’s continue.”

 

~*~

 

Hours later, and they had made almost no progress.

Even Hellas was starting to become frustrated.

“Did you ever think that perhaps this isn’t the cure-all you thought it would be?” Anneith asked tiredly.

Hellas ran a agitated hand through his now-messy dark hair. “Perhaps. But this . . . this is something, at least.”

She stared at him. “. . . what? We just spent hours setting things on fire and levitating books. What part of that screams progress?”

He held his hands in front of him in a gesture of surrender. “Just a thought.” He leaned forward. “Anneith . . . if it’s alright with you . . . I’d like to see you again.”

“For . . . for what?”

“I’ll be looking for answers. I’ll contact you if I find something, but I understand if you’re . . . unwilling. For now, it seems as if nothing is wrong. Perhaps it was a one-time thing . . .?”

“I don’t think so.”

He cocked his head. “Why not?”

“A couple of days before . . . before the incident, I lost control.”

“Lost control? As in—”

“—as in I couldn’t control my magic. At all. I accidentally shattered a teacup.”

“And you never felt it coming?”

“No.”

“It just happened? Just like that?”

“The power wasn’t in my control at all.” She felt vulnerable, saying the words aloud.

Hellas leaned back in his chair, a long sigh deflating his chest. “Then we’ll keep searching. We _will_ solve this, Anneith. One way or another.”

 

~*~

 

Hellas winnowed her to the kitchen entrance of the Leander. Anneith tucked her coat more securely around herself as a brief chill swept over her. She glanced up, at the lighted windows of the manor. “You fixed their memories?”

He nodded. “There’s nothing to worry about. They don’t even know you’ve been gone.”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she said, exhaustion bleeding into her voice.

The god raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I’ve been rude.”

He chuckled. “If you’ve been rude, I wonder what to call the treatment I usually get. Of course, they’re from the dead, but still . . . ”

“I appreciate your help. I do. It . . . you don’t have to do any of this, and I understand that. It’s just . . . it’s been a long day.”

“I can tell.” He nodded at the door. “Get some sleep, Anneith. We’ll talk soon.”

He was gone before she could say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment and tell me how you liked it!
> 
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	10. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Ciardhubh (KIER-vuh)

Anneith awoke to the sound of furious pounding on her window. She groaned, dismissing the sound as part of the storms that had ravaged the Cliffs in the past few weeks. Diving back underneath her covers, she planted herself facedown into her bed, attempting to ignore the harsh rapping.

“Anneith!”

She turned, quizzical as a harsh whisper drifted through her room. Launching herself out of bed, she walked rapidly towards her window—and jumped back in shock.

“Hellas! What—”

The god was right outside her window, face pressed up against the glass. How had he—? There were no vines crawling up the side of the Leander that could have lay way to midnight visitors. Was he on some sort of ledge—

“—apologies for bothering you at this hour,” panted Hellas. “But I’m . . . well, _slipping_ , as I’m sure you can tell. It would be helpful if you could just—”

“—right. Sorry.” One tug on the lever, and the window popped open. Hellas tumbled onto the floor, grunting a little as he jumped back onto his feet. Anneith peered anxiously around, as if she could see her parents complaining about the racket already. “What are you doing here?”

“I found something.”

“Really? Truly, this time?”

“Well . . .”

“Hellas.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“I swear, if you make me do one more litmus test—”

“—no. Nothing of the sort. But similarly . . . tedious, unfortunately. I thought you might want to join me.”

She folded her arms, stifling a yawn as she did. Energy was not something that came easily to her these days. “What kind of tedious?”

“There is a library,” Hellas said, his voice hushed. “Ancient, nearly as old as I am. I thought it’d be a good idea for you to accompany me, see what the beings of the past have to say about your condition.”

“And why are we doing it in the dark of night?”

“I’d rather not have the other gods know that I brought a more . . . mortal being into our realm. They don’t take kindly to intruders.”

“Right,” she murmured, as thought the prospect of becoming acquainted with more gods was another normal, everyday occurrence. “And this is perfectly safe for me?”

He gave her a sheepish look.

_“Hellas."_

“They won’t kill you, I promise.”

“‘Not killing’ isn’t the most acceptable answer when you intrude into someone’s bedroom in the pitch black night and ask them to go perform some mysterious task.”

“We’re not barbarians, Anneith. I can speak for myself and my siblings when I tell you that you will be perfectly fine.”

 

~*~

 

Anneith had thought that their trek through the Héloïse Forest had been bad.

Traversing it at night was even worse.

“There are no more entrances to the godly world in a different place?” Anneith grumbled as she just manage to sidestep a spiky bush.

“I’m afraid not.” Hellas skillfully led the way. “Cultivating the magical environment necessary for an entrance is difficult to do, especially in such a jagged environment like your Cliffs. The same goes for the Tristian Bluffs. Most entrances are concentrated in the Plains of Astrea and the Flatland. Softer terrain, easier to manage.”

“Did you personally craft each entrance?”

“Me, specifically? No. It takes a great deal of energy to create a door. The act itself—” he paused as he lifted up a curtain of vines so Anneith could pass underneath “—is most easily described as—well, tearing into the fabric of the universe.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“There is a boundary between the godly world, your world, and the mortal world. You know this, everyone knows this. But think of each realm as having its own little dome, or bubble. That layered separation is thin, which is why when we tear into it—metaphorically, of course—we have to be wary as not to completely destroy the balance. That takes energy, raw magic. Just to make sure that we don’t destroy worlds while we try to bridge them.”

She pondered his words for a second. “So, then . . . was there a world where the gods had no access to other worlds at all?”

“A long time ago, yes. And there are still worlds out there that we do not know of.”

They came upon the edge of the clearing that the cottage sat on. Hellas turned towards her, and held out his hand. She merely stared at it.

“It’ll be easier if you’re tethered to me,” he explained, and reluctantly, she took it.

“Isn’t it just like winnowing?”

He grimaced slightly, an action that did nothing to reassure her.  “Not exactly.” Then, before she could say anything: “Hold on.”

 

~*~

 

It was decidedly  _not_ like winnowing.

A flash of light before her eyes was all she saw before she was launched into nothingness. She couldn’t tell where she was, at all. She was floating, but grounded at the same time, an invisible force forcing her down to the ground where there was no ground. Darkness engulfed her, and she was drowning in nothing, nothing, nothing. And then—

A warmth spread through somewhere in her body. Her arm? Her wrist?

Her fingers.

Anneith felt pressure on her skin, and the warmth spread through her body. Someone else’s fingers, cold but warm against hers, squeezed. Softly. Comfortingly. She surrendered to that comfort, grasping at that one real thing.

She breathed, deep and scattered, steeling herself against more of—

Anneith let out a startled, almost pained yelp as the flash of light returned, and her feet returned to solid ground. She tore herself away from Hellas, collapsing to the grass and regurgitating her dinner. Her stomach was on fire, twisted and molded into something that didn’t feel like it belonged inside her body. Head spinning, she struggled to stand, nails digging into the dirt for support.

Hellas knelt beside her, slipping his arms under hers. Propping her up against his own body, he said kindly, “It takes a little getting used to.”

She nearly fell to her knees again, the weight on her body exhausting. Anneith was still bent over at the waist, chest heaving monstrously. She gasped for air. “I—”

“—shh. There’s no need to exert yourself now, love.” Hellas looked up, over her head. “We’re already here.”

This close to him, she could feel the warmth rolling off of his body. He smelled like citrus and herbs, an intoxicating mix that made her subconsciously curl into him. And it might have been her imagination, but she could have sworn that she felt his arms tighten around her as her cheek fell into his shirt.

Her body was spent, energy lost somewhere in that vortex between worlds. Her eyelids began to flutter and droop. It would be so easy to just surrender to the darkness, to just collapse and sleep against the warmth . . .

No. There was no time for that.

She wrenched herself away from Hellas, silently thanking her internal monologue for reminding her who she was. Coughing and blushing, she dusted herself off. Mortified. Absolutely mortified. Anneith tipped her head up to glance at Hellas, for some form of affirmation that they should proceed with their quest—

—and found the god staring back at her.

His dark eyes were fixed on hers, radiating with emotion of a different kind. He had an expression she couldn’t read; and yet it was something she felt like she understood, intimately. She felt it in her chest, blooming outwards from her heart, filling her with warmth. The same kind of warmth that had anchored her in the darkness, saved her from herself, her fear. And for once she didn’t feel the intrinsic need to pull away, to put distance between herself and this dangerous, enigmatic figure.

But the same voice in her mind pressed her on, reminding her that they didn’t have all the time in the world to stop and contemplate every last word, every last detail.

She turned away.

There, directly ahead of them, was a large black building, almost castle-like in its construction. Well, not quite. It was set up like a castle or a manor; the same spacious donjon in the center, flanked by two geometric towers. The donjon was not like the conventional flat-topped keep that the Leander boasted; no, it was domed at the top, its lovely curve reflecting the moonlight. Its towers, curved sentinels, were also built in the same fashion, although they were topped with what could have been interpreted as an unfinished dome, cutting off at the waist. But the smoothness, the perfection of the edges offered only reassurance that yes, it was completed. And it was gorgeous.

Peace. That was the word that she felt right now. Peace, in the presence of this architectural wonder. In this beautiful night, where the stars were out and the grass was soft and the air was crisp and smelled of herbs and citrus and she could feel herself melting. She was so, undeniably, utterly, _free_.

_Remember who you are. Your responsibilities. Do not get caught up in this fleeting moment._

She bit the inside of her lips before turning to the god. “Shall we go?”

He dipped his head in acknowledgement, his eyes back to their regular stoicism. He extended an arm towards the library. “Onwards.”

 

~*~

 

The library at Leander was white marble, so pure that it was almost blinding.

The library at Athinerva was a different story.

As they approached the building, Anneith could see more clearly what it was. Indeed, it was built of black granite, as she had originally suspected. The dark stone glittered and reflected the moonlight, which turned the specks running through it pearlescent. Anneith resisted the urge to run her fingertips over the walls of the donjon, just as spectacular and mighty as they had been when she had been a distance away.

The doors that the pair stopped in front of were . . . well, quite small for the magnificent façade of the rest of the library.

They were wooden, fashioned from a lighter wood, a shade between cherry and walnut. There were designs carved into the smooth planes; of gods and a belt of stars, of a grand battle between beautiful heroes and dark beings. And, rising above it all, a figure bedecked in a grand gown, tresses floating around her head like a halo, a plume of flames in her outstretched palm.

“It tells of a battle between an evil army and a noble peoples,” explained Hellas, his tone soft. “The war lasted for centuries, outliving even some of the youngest warriors. Ultimately, victory came, but at a great cost to the heroes.”

“And her?” She nodded towards the woman rising above the battlefield.

“She was the queen of the heroes, the last true savior of the land. As the battle began to enter its third century with no end in sight, the queen made a final decision. She abandoned the battle and left her husband, her children, and her friends.”

“She left them there to die?”

“No. She left in the middle of the night—at a time not unlike ours—and climbed to the tallest mountain she could find, braving the snow. There, at the peak, she gave herself up to the heavens and the Great Goddess, in exchange for the lives of her people.” Hellas fixed his eyes on the queen’s resolute face, his eyes dim. “It was only due to her sacrifice that they survived.”

“And after she gave herself up? They never heard from her again?”

His lips quirked, just a little. Up, down, she missed it. But his voice was imperceptibly sad as he spoke. “No. Her people, some of them ungrateful and believing that she had truly abandoned them, attempted to seize the palace just days after she left. But her family never gave up hope that they would see her again; that she would arise from the ashes like she had always done, and they would be whole once more. Her husband spent centuries more searching for her, but he never did find her—or let himself believe that she was truly, truly gone.”

Anneith glanced at the queen again, and this time the queen seemed to stare back, her gaze unyielding. And to consider this female, who had given up herself for her country, for a hope . . . she shook the feeling of familiarity off. She wasn’t here for a story. Gesturing towards the double doors, she asked, “So . . . is there a test we have to pass before we can enter? Or . . . ?”

Hellas finally cracked a smile. “No. Not quite.” He pressed his palm against the largest star in the belt, his hand just large enough to cover the points. Anneith looked wildly around, trying to sense the source of the sudden pulse of energy (before, embarrassingly, realizing it was Hellas himself). She felt almost dizzy, euphoric at the same time. Magic was firing from all angles, all crevices and nooks, all folds in the universe. She was inside Hellas’s little bubble of power, and she could see the silvery energy as it flowed out of the god’s fingertips and into the wooden star.

Hellas removed his palm, and the doors swung open with a heavy weight.

“What . . . what was that?”

The god wrung his hand out, as if affected by a cramp. “A test of loyalty. Of sorts. This is one of, if not the most fortified locations in this universe as we know it. It would hardly be wise of us to just allow anyone to walk in without credentials. The door is warded so that only deities and their guests may walk through. I’ll admit, it was a little showier than I usually go for, but—” he winked at her “—it’s all for you.”

She rolled her eyes as she followed him inside, and immediately stopped.

The ivory tiles stretched on for what seemed like miles ahead of her, engraved and decorated with elegant, flowering designs of black flowers. The walls came up, solid walls of black stone. Delicately cut, cream-colored arches jutted out of the walls, carved so finely that they looked lacelike. The domed ceiling above her twinkled with what she realized were the stars themselves, shining through glass.

Beside her, Hellas chuckled. “You might want to close your mouth.”

Anneith hastily let out a sucking breath, just before a string of saliva could fall from her open mouth. _My gods. This place._

“In here,” called Hellas, opening a door on the side for her.

“And you said this was a . . . library?” Anneith asked, still trying to collect her thoughts.

“Yes. Built when I was a young god. This library houses the largest collection of knowledge and literature in the world as we know it.”

The door that Hellas had opened led, finally, to the books. It was a library not unlike the one at the Leander, a spacious but cozy sitting room lined wall-to-wall with bookshelves. And, like the Leander, one wall was dedicated to showing off delicate panes of glass; although these windows were teardrop-shaped, like the structure of the library itself. The center of the room was set with a large wooden table armed with matching chairs, a ball of glowing golden light floating above it. A wave of the god’s hand, and the fireplace burst alive with flames. Two armchairs sat in front of the golden glow, comfortable and inviting.

Hellas unbuttoned his long dark coat (“It’s to keep up pretenses. The ‘grim reaper,’ really,” he had said when Anneith dared to ask) and threw it over one of the wooden chairs. Anneith followed suit, holding back a sigh of pleasure as the fire began to warm the room. “Where would you like to start?”

“Um . . . what do you have?”

Hellas waved a hand, and Anneith blinked. The large wooden table was now completely covered in scattered papers and large books, some of them bigger than her head and twice as thick. “Wow.”

The god nodded somberly. “‘Wow’ indeed. I wanted to be thorough this time, since we made very little progress in terms of literature at our last meeting.”

Her cheeks reddened as she recalled her outburst. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. This library was a mess anyway when I came in to rifle through the shelves. Farnor,” he grumbled, “was probably looking for some ancient battlefield map of his, and the books felt his wrath.”

Anneith, unsure of how to respond, turned back to the books. “So . . . are these organized by any sort of metric? Genre, author, length?”

“Date, actually. The ones towards the left are the oldest. If you make your way towards the right, the books become more recent.”

Running an assessing hand along the vellum of the leftmost book, she asked, “Did you happen to read through any of these yet?” She turned just in time to see Hellas scratch his head sheepishly.

“I . . . skimmed a few pages.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Well, I appreciate the thought,” she replied dryly, pulling out a chair. “Shall we begin?”

 

~*~

 

Thorough, indeed.

Hellas had pulled every single tome, volume, pamphlet, and fictional novel that had the slightest mention about losing control or strange magic. But even with two pairs of eyes scanning, they couldn’t even hope to make it through the stacks of books before the end of the month. Maybe year.

Anneith sighed as she slammed another book closed. Hellas looked up as she rubbed her eyes, dry from all the reading. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

He glanced out the window. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to peek through, casting a rose gold glow across the table. “You must be tired, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m . . . grateful you brought me here.” Even as she spoke, _grateful_ was too weak a word for what she felt. Despite learning nothing about her strange ailment, just being able to see this place . . . that was enough.

She could have sworn the edges of Hellas’s eyes crinkled as she spoke. “Then I’m grateful as well.” He closed his own large encyclopedia, coughing a little as a plume of dust flew up. “Shall we bring you home then?”

Anneith opened her mouth to speak, when—

“—Hellas! Why did you lock the door—” the doorknob jangled dangerously as someone on the other side shook it vigorously. Anneith glanced towards the god, who was rolling his eyes. The jangling stopped, but Anneith heard the knocker whisper, “you bastard” before Hellas turned towards her.

“There seems to be a visitor.”

Anneith shifted uncomfortably as the aura of the room changed. Whoever was on the other side, they were magical. And powerfully so. “I think . . . I think I should head back.”

“Actually, it might be better if you met the person so rudely knocking on the other side of the door.”

“I thought you said that it would be unwise for me to meet your . . . siblings.”

“I said that with other gods in mind. And technically, you two have already met.”

Anneith didn’t even have time to open her mouth to protest—or ask questions—before Hellas was across the room, opening the door.

A gorgeous woman burst into the room, dressed in a lovely silver gown that contrasted with her coffee-colored skin. Her eyes shone with irritation as she glared at Hellas, chest and head held high. Hellas merely smirked. “You’re back early.”

Anneith shifted uncomfortably as the female leaned in close, until her chest and face were mere centimeters away from Hellas’s own. “Do you know the trouble I had to go through to find you? I went to Ciardhubh. You weren’t there. I went to Lumas; he had no idea where you were. I even went to Farnor—who, by the way, still does not give a shit about any of us—and asked him.”

“You must have missed me a lot.”

“Ha!” The female scoffed, finally stepping away from Hellas and throwing her hair back. It fell in a graceful wave over her back, and Anneith suddenly fell self-conscious. The female pointed a finger at the dark god, who merely stared back in amusement. “Wait until you hear what I have to say.”

“I would love to,” he replied dryly. “But you have neglected to notice the visitor in the room, sister.”

 _Sister?_ Anneith internally groaned. Not another god.

The female turned slowly, and Anneith caught sight of her full face. She was as breathtakingly beautiful as she had first guessed she was; with curly dark hair loose around her shoulders, sparkling brown eyes with flecks of gold around the pupil, and plump lips. Hellas radiated death, destruction and power. This female felt just as powerful. In a different way, but certainly no less.

Anneith had barely had a chance to glimpse the goddess’s beauty before she realized who she was, in this room, to these two gods, and hastily dropped into an awkward curtsy-bow-bend. Her face burned. Was she supposed to address her? Was she supposed to just haul ass out of there?

“Aw, you’re sweet. But you certainly don’t have to curtsy to me.”

Anneith glanced up, and found the female cocking her head to the side, an amused smile curving her lips. “I’m . . . sorry.”

“What? No, don’t be sorry. In fact, I should be the one introducing myself to you. The last time we saw each other, it wasn’t on very good terms for you, I’m afraid.”

“Anneith,” Hellas called, finally stepping forward to flank the pair. “This is Silba.”

 _Silba?!_ It was a wonder Anneith didn’t pass out again. “I’m—um—pleased to meet you.”

“As am I. I’m glad to see you up and in one piece. You gave us a fright last time, didn’t you?”

“Um—”

“—Silba has been helping me research,” explained Hellas. “Unfortunately, she’s as puzzled as we are.”

“We will find a solution,” said Silba firmly, eyes boring into hers. “Don’t lose hope.”

“Thank you,” she replied, awkwardly. She didn’t dare pray to the gods to get her out of this situation. They were in the room with her, after all.

“How long have you two been here?”

“I’m—um, heading home, actually.”

“Heading home? You two must have been here for hours, then, to avoid the daytime rush of scholars. Hellas, you kept this poor girl captive in this library for hours? Without food or drink?”

“Oh, actually, I wasn’t—”

“—no, she’s right. I’m sorry, Anneith, I never thought about that.”

Anneith caught his eye. And if looks could speak: _What the hell?_

She felt a little pricking against her mental shields, and she let him in.

_I am sorry, you know. That’s genuine._

_I wasn’t hungry anyway. I think the reading was more pressing than food at three in the morning._

_Still. You must be famished._

_Not really._

_Anneith, I heard your stomach from across the room just now._

_That was someone else. That was the fireplace._

_The fire burned out three hours ago._

_Godsdamnit._

_Language. And to curse a god? Shame on you._

Anneith resisted the urge to roll her eyes. _Are you taking me home or not?_

Hellas cocked his head towards Silba, who was waving her arms at something. _Just watch. Silba isn’t known as a matronly figure for nothing._

“Breakfast!” Silba declared, and Hellas’s presence slipped out of her mind. Anneith snapped back to reality. “Breakfast is what you need. I think I can conjure something up from the stocks in the kitchen.”

“No, really, that’s fine, I should be heading home—”

“—on an empty stomach? Nonsense. The kitchens are just in the back, we could take breakfast there. I won’t have Hellas victimize you like this _and_ have you leave on an empty stomach. Midnight library visits without food, my ass,” muttered the goddess as she threw open the door and walked out.

 

~*~

 

Anneith had barely sat down before Silba waved a hand, and food appeared on the table. She tried her best not to gape, still unused to being around the seemingly bottomless well of power that these gods held. Immortals held some of that power, maybe some nearly to the same extent—but for all of that power, she couldn’t remember a time when her food hadn’t been prepared by hand.

Silba, however, crinkled her nose at the selection. “Dammit. It’s not cooked.”

Hellas leaned back, smirking. “A little early in the day, perhaps? Your powers haven’t fully awoken yet?”

“Don’t test me, you bastard.” Silba turned back to the food, and, popping a slice of bread into her mouth, picked up a carton of eggs. Anneith watched, mesmerized, as other plates of toast and sausages followed the goddess to the stove, landing neatly on the counter. One by one, the eggs cracked themselves and plopped into the crackling pan, along with the sausages. Silba leaned back against a different counter, seemingly satisfied with her magic. “So, Anneith, has my brother been treating you right?”

She blinked. “Sorry, what?”

Silba waved a hand. “Because he can be a stubborn fool sometimes. Utterly unfeeling, do you know that? Only cares about retreating back to his ghastly residence in Underworld.”

“I’m right here,” said Hellas dryly from his seat, sipping coffee.

Silba flipped an egg and pointed the spatula at him. “Nothing from you, Hellas.”

Hellas held his hands up in mock surrender, and then returned to his coffee, raising an eyebrow over the rim as if to tell Anneith, _I told you so._

“Eggs, Anneith?”

“Oh, um—yes, thank you.”

“Sausage?”

“Oh, no, I think that the eggs are quite en—”

“—absolutely not, you’re thin as a stick! Some sausage will be good, I promise. I am the goddess of healing, after all.”

“It’s just a title,” muttered Hellas under his breath. Silba whacked him on the head with her wooden spatula. “Ow!”

She merely clicked her tongue. “You’re a god. Aren’t you supposed to be impervious to pain?”

Hellas let out a long-suffering sigh, and returned to stirring his coffee.

At last, the food was plated and Silba had sat down at the table. Hellas leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Silba has some theories on you, actually.”

Anneith nearly choked on her muffin. “Really?”

Silba swiped at her mouth with a handkerchief. “Well, they’re not quite complete. I observed you that night in the cabin, but I couldn’t quite conclude anything. You were unresponsive, which complicated my examination. And seeing as we haven’t been able to find anything concrete about the root of your problem, I don’t believe I can make any more assumptions, either.”

“What are your theories, then? Even if they’re sparse, perhaps . . .”

“Perhaps it might provide a frame of reference when we dive back into the stacks,” finished Hellas as he swallowed a mouthful of buttered toast.

“Well . . .” Silba stirred her sugar. “I knew a male, once, long ago. He was a lord for a local king who managed trade and finances. Sharp mind, one of the cleverest men in the kingdom. But one day he fell ill. Nothing too supernatural, just a pox that was going around. He survived, but he was not the same, on all accounts. He began to act strangely, shying away from his duties, brawling, drinking, sleeping around. All behavior that the pre-pox version of himself would have never done, according to his friends. And then, he got angry at a servant in the castle one day.”

“What happened?”

Silba’s bright eyes dimmed. “The servant boy couldn’t have been older than eleven. He was carrying a stack of plates, but dropped it out of fright when the lord began to shout at him. The lord became angrier, lost control of his magic, and levitated the shards of porcelain off the ground and into the boy’s body. He died in pain, poor child.”

Anneith’s hand shook.

“Great Goddess, Silba,” said Hellas sharply.

Silba shook her head sadly, regret bleeding through her voice. “I’m sorry. But that’s the truth of what happened. This may not apply to you, Anneith. It may never apply to you. There are too many variables to consider. Time, age, location . . . I only thought of it because I know you lost control. But there have been many people throughout history who have experienced similar things. I’m sure we can diagnose your . . . malady, for lack of a better word, soon.”

“I—” It was a lot to process. Any sane person would have recognized that. But all Anneith felt was guilt. Guilt, that she had let this manifest and sit for so long inside her that even the gods, all-powerful, omniscient beings, had noticed. For lashing out the way she did, for causing trouble wherever she went. Somehow, someway, no matter what anyone said—this was her fault.

“Why don’t we head back to the Cliffs?” Hellas said gently, making a move to stand.

“Yes, um, I—thank you for everything, um—”

“—call me Silba,” the goddess said softly. “That’s all that’s necessary.”

The goddess’s expression of pity and sympathy was the last thing that Anneith saw before Hellas slipped his fingers around hers and winnowed them back to the Héloïse Forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment and if you liked it!
> 
> Visit my Tumblr for more: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)


	11. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)  
> Jaimes (jay-mes (same pronunciation as "James"))  
> Graehem (gray-hem)  
> Deacon (DEE-con)  
> Cathal (Ca-hal)

Anneith tossed and turned, restless. Sleep had been elusive for the past few days since she had met with Hellas and Silba. She was constantly tired, despite sleeping for hours and hours at a time.  _ But _ , she thought quietly as she flipped over on her side once more. It was routine for her. 

She burrowed under the covers. Too hot. She stuck a leg out. Too cold. She pressed her face into her pillow. And felt the onset of asphyxiation. 

“Fuck it,” she grunted, and threw her covers off. She shivered at the sudden cold. Conjuring up a golden orb to light her way, she stormed across her room and hunched over her vanity. Brushing her hair out of her face, she started at the figure in the mirror. Anneith barely recognized herself, wild-eyed and haggard. Great Goddess, she looked like her father. Paranoid and reckless. 

Letting her hair fall back into place, she slipped a light cardigan over her thin nightgown and tiptoed out her door. The Leander was cold, and the hallways were no exception. Drafts filtered in through cracks in the foundation, chilling Anneith to the bone. She padded softly to the end of the hall, where she slipped through the door to the west tower and made her way down the spiral staircase. 

Making sure to bypass the servants’ quarters (which lay directly at the bottom of the stairs), Anneith headed straight for the smaller entrance to the kitchens. It had started out as a harmless once-in-a-while midnight snack routine—that had now exploded into at least once every couple of days or weeks. That wasn’t to say that she never heard Caitriona crunch on an apple in the hallways at one in the morning; but the bottomless hunger that she felt was much more strange. Anneith carefully swung the door open, breathing a sigh of relief as she saw that there was a plate of cookies that someone had left out. Letting her orb of light hover behind her, she reached for the plate when—

“Careful, there. Wouldn’t want you getting fat.”

Anneith froze. And turned carefully, although she didn’t need to. Malvolia’s curt voice was unmistakable. 

“I thought I heard someone scampering across the upper floors,” her mother said, casually leaning against one side of the kitchen doorframe. 

“Mother—”

“—and lo and behold! My own daughter.” Anneith could feel herself stiffen as her mother moved closer, candle dish held elegantly in one hand. 

Anneith’s own golden orb was snuffed out. 

Malvolia’s piercing blue eyes roamed up and down her daughter’s body. Then back onto her face. “You know, Anneith—” she held back a shudder as her mother clamped a hand down onto her shoulder “—you’ve been missing from the house quite often, haven’t you? I haven’t seen you lately.”

“I’ve been reading,” Anneith said meekly. 

“Ah, yes. Reading. Well, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Anneith wasn’t stupid enough to counter.

“But don’t you think it’s due time for you to get your nose out of your books and spend a little more time with your family? At events?”

“I don’t think I have much to add.”

“Be that as it may,” Malvolia said breezily. “But we still want you there nonetheless. And otherwise, how will you meet suitors? You are, well, I don’t want to say this, but awfully old to still be unmarried, sweetheart.”

“I—”

“In fact, perhaps it’s rather serendipitous that I found you here, so I can break the good news to you!”

“What . . . good news?”

“Your father has been around the island, although I don’t suppose you realized that. He’s found three more fantastic matches for you. You’ll meet them tomorrow. At a ball. We’re holding it right here, in the Leander.”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t thank me, thank your father!” Malvolia let go of Anneith, but she was too in shock to even note it. 

Her mother paused in the threshold as she exited. Turning around, she cast a disapproving gaze over Anneith’s face—or her body, rather. “Remember what I said. You’re getting rather plump.”

~*~

 

Déja vu was a cruel thing.

Except this time, it was Anneith who was dolled up. At her own ball. With a glass of champagne in her hand that felt too heavy to be real. It seemed so obscene that she would still have to do this; still be subject to finding a husband after everything.  _ Everything.  _ It was as if the moment she left her double life at the library, she could barely utter the words of what was happening to her, out of the spotlight. 

A part of her pushed her to be . . . grateful. Grateful to her parents, for doing all of this. For raising her, in the lap of luxury. For throwing her a grand ball. This was an experience few received. And for that, she ought, ought, ought. Ought to be grateful. 

All the other parts of her mind were not so kind. 

Taking a shaking sip of the effervescent liquid in her flute, she tried to calm the torturous clashing in her brain. 

With a jolt—long, long overdue—she realized that she was in the same room. Same time, same place as all those months ago, when all she had to worry about was whether or not she would be relegated to a life as the pretty object on someone’s arm. The ballroom was emptier than it was on Caitriona’s birthday, but the people here were much more poisonous. There weren’t factions of elites like there had been at her sister’s party; rather, everyone was mingling. Walking from place to place with different people. 

Anneith shuddered to think of what kind of social espionage was taking place underneath her nose. 

Lady Glain and Aislin had been—for lack of a better word—snubbed of an invitation, although at this point Lady Glain seemed tolerant of whatever antics her friend was carrying out. Aislin and Caitriona (who had also been barred from going, to her chagrin, anger, and whining) were less than happy, and had voiced their opinions at the cafe just hours before.

“I’m not angry because I can’t go,” Aislin ranted.

Anneith stirred her espresso absentmindedly. “Then why are you?”

“I’m angry because your mother is an insidious bitch.”

Anneith merely looked up and raised an eyebrow. Caitriona, from beside her, snorted. “Don’t try to refute that, Anneith. We know it’s true.”

“She raised us.”

“Barely. Caoimhe is more of our mother than she is.”

“Maybe so. But she and Father provided us with money, a home . . .” she trailed off. 

“Regardless! My mother is bent on completely ignoring this whole invitation fiasco. I, fortunately—”

“ _ —fortunately? _ —”

“—am not. It’s one thing to not invite someone because you’re upset with them. Which your mother isn’t with my mother.”

“She has a problem with you,” said Caitriona helpfully, scraping the foam off of the top of her latte. 

“I  _ know _ . I don’t care about that. The more egregious problem is that she refuses to let her own daughter walk five minutes to the back of the house to join!”

“Divide and conquer.” The younger sister took a sip from her mug. “You have to talk to people if neither of us are there.”

Aislin threw her hands up. But underneath all of her frenzy, Anneith could see the logic formulating in her eyes. There was a reason why this female had held out for so long against suitors—and not because of her tolerant mother. “Macha isn’t coming either?”

“Mother has never liked Macha anyway. It wasn’t really a mystery as to whether she’d come or not.”

“She can’t . . . burst in?”

“She’d never do that. Firstly, she’s too elegant for that. Secondly, she hasn’t left the Plains in years.”

“Right,” Aislin murmured. “What about Edryd?”

“Banned.”

“Really?”

“Mother doesn’t want him to ‘interfere’ with the others.”

“She’s really thought this through,” confirmed Caitriona, equally glum. 

And there the brainstorming had ended. Aislin had raged throughout their whole coffee date, with Caitriona occasionally supplementing arguments. But they had come to an impasse. 

Now Anneith was feeling the full effects of that deadlock, standing uncomfortably in the center of the room. Immortals kept approaching her, with large, fake grins. Expecting her to blush and reply with something ditzy and sweet. 

No such fucking luck. 

“Lady Anneith, how are you finding this ball? Such an honor, for you!” 

By the second word out of the female’s mouth, Anneith had already forgotten her name. “Oh, yes, it’s quite pleasant. Although all of the appetizers do seem very simple for my taste. Especially the cheese.”

The female turned red, and Anneith didn’t miss the way she shoved her full plate of cheeses at a nearby waiter as she walked away. 

This bitter, churlish behavior continued. 

And gods, oh gods, did it feel good. The night passed, in a haze of whirling words and alcohol.

“What are you wearing? The pattern is . . . interesting.”

“I thought you’d recognize it. It’s from your own  _ personal  _ tailor, after all.”

More champagne.

“Lady Anneith, there are so many handsome males clamoring for you! Far more than there were for me.”

“Yes. Of course there are.”

More champagne. 

By the time that she had left another elderly female reeling from her rudeness, she was feeling dizzy and lightheaded. She had never consumed this much alcohol in her life. But it was champagne. Was it possible to get this drunk on champagne? 

And then she remembered an excerpt from a wine connoisseur’s guide she had once read:  _ “Champagne, while unassuming, has the same alcohol content as a glass of wine. However, due to the bubbles, the body absorbs the liquid much more rapidly than wine, allowing the consumer to become inebriated much, much more quickly.” _

Well, fuck. 

For some strange reason, Ubel and Malvolia hadn’t come up to her all night, instead preferring to stay in the corner with a tight-knit group. Probably trying to bargain for more matches for her, although at this point she was too drunk to care. She’d leave that to her hangover.

“Lady Anneith.”

She jumped as a voice sounded from behind her? “Hmm!” Whirling around, she came face-to-face with a young male. About her height, with golden skin the same shade as her aunt’s. His light brown eyes were sharp, and his jet black hair was messy, in a devil-may-care way. The moment he bent to kiss her hand, she knew. “My name is Jaimes. I was sent to—”

“—to be my suitor?” 

He blinked, although he quickly ignored her interruption. “Yes.”

She peered over his shoulder for a moment. “And I assume those two other males are also supposed to be my suitors?”

Jaimes didn’t even look before he slung an arm around her waist. “Oh, them? They’re nobodies.” 

A chill ran up Anneith’s spine as she felt the pressure of his hand on her, but she was beyond drunk to care. So this was her third suitor. Another self-absorbed, spoiled brat of a male. Not impressive, to say the least. 

“You look beautiful, Lady Anneith.”

“Thank you.” 

“Would you like some . . . cake?” He gestured towards a plate of tiny cakes, served up on a glass plate. 

“No, I’m alright.”

“Right.”

Anneith was well aware of how hard she was making it for him, but she was not in a pandering mood. Not in the least. 

“What do you do, Lord Jaimes?”

“Pardon me?”

“For a profession.”

“I study business and economics. I’m one of the finest scholars in the land, actually.”

_ Great Goddess help me.  _

She forced a smile. “Really?”

“Yes. I study under my father, who, of course, studied under Lord Kinnon of the Flatlands. Kinnon is, of course, the richest man to ever invest in the trading industry,” Jaimes said, sounding incredibly smug. “In fact, Kinnon considers my father like a son to him. So, you could say that I’m—”

“—like a grandson to Kinnon.” She could barely hold back her eye roll. 

“Exactly.”

“Lady Anneith!” Another call caught her attention. Glancing over Jaimes’s shoulder, she saw the other two males quickly approaching him. Evidently, they didn’t like Jaimes getting too close to her before they themselves could. She groaned internally. All she wanted to do was rest. It felt like her mind had shut down, and not just from the alcohol. 

The first one who approached her had golden hair, nearly moon-white in the light. His striking emerald eyes were the first thing that caught her attention. That, and the predatory way he held himself, leaning forward on the balls of his feet—as if ready to lunge at any moment. 

The second one reminded her a bit of Jaimes already, although he hadn’t even opened his mouth. He was shorter than her (not an easy task) and had an air about him, as if he knew everything. And judging by the high-quality fabric of his suit—more expensive-looking than the other two males’ combined. 

The first one reached his hand out first, and Anneith shuddered a little as his lips touched her reluctantly yielded hand. “My lady.” He straightened. “My name is—”

“—my lady!” Anneith stifled a small yelp as she was suddenly tugged to the side, and cringed as the second male planted a sloppy kiss on her hand. “My name is Deacon, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She wished she had kept her champagne flute. “A pleasure.”

“Lord Graehem, at your service,” said the first male as he performed a flourished bow, ignoring Deacon’s interruption. A twitch of his lips indicated his confidence. There was no need for him to charge forward like Deacon had done. 

“I’m pleased to meet you.” 

“It’s quite rude to interrupt a conversation. Or, at least that’s what I’ve heard occasionally,” said Jaimes conversationally. His warning tone was messily disguised.

“The night is waning, Lord Jaimes. Deacon and I just thought that we’d come over to say hello to the lovely lady before we have to leave.” 

“Yes,” echoed Deacon. 

“Lady Anneith, are you pleased with the ball?”

“It’s nice.”

“Some champagne, my lady?” Deacon offered her a flute. 

She tried not to look too longingly at it. “No, I’m alright. Thank you.”

“So, Lady Anneith, I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I doubt it,” she said dryly, but Graehem didn’t seem offended in the least. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jaimes move away to stand at Deacon’s side, his glare burning into Graehem’s face. 

Graehem gave her a smile, a ridiculously charming one. “Then, my lady, I look forward to knowing you.”

“Excuse me, excuse me!” The loud sound of silverware on glass rang through the room, and Anneith’s attention snapped towards the origin of the noise. Malvolia stood at the front of the room, illuminated against the glass doors to the garden by golden candles. “I’m afraid I have to announce that it is getting quite late, and some of us need to sleep a little!”

A chorus of protests, meek and perfunctory, rose up from the crowd. Her mother gave a tinkling laugh. “Alright, alright. I did say I was sorry—” Anneith wanted to vomit at her mother’s polite veneer. “But this means that we have the honor of announcing the last dance of the night. And as this ball is in the honor of  _ my daughter _ —” She didn’t miss the way that Malvolia’s eyes narrowed at her “—she will be dancing with one of the fine young males here. It is my pleasure to announce that the last dance will be by Lady Anneith and her escort, Lord Graehem!”

She felt her lips twitch.  _ Why am I not surprised?  _

Graehem held out an arm to her. “My lady.” He escorted her onto the floor, and she resisted the overwhelming urge to run. The music started, a light violin-flute duet, and they took their steps lightly as they followed the melody. She could feel everyone staring at them, arranged along the walls of the ballroom as they spun. 

Thankfully, Graehem made no attempt to talk to her, although the intensity of his green eyes made her uncomfortable enough. They spun around the room, the skirt of her dress fluttering around her ankles with every movement. Her mind wandered off, of its own volition. Again, she pondered the frivolity of it all: a ball, in the midst of all of the other problems in her life. 

But then again, she couldn’t be wholly ungrateful. And she couldn’t tell anyone. 

So they spun on, Anneith avoiding Graehem’s vivid jade stare.

 

~*~

 

“Have you heard about it?” 

Anneith slowed her pace, looking up at Edryd as he walked at her side. “About what?”

He handed her several small orbs of onions, which she promptly placed in the bin beside her. “About the sailors.” He meticulously dusted some dirt off of his pants before helping Anneith to her feet. It was still quite cold, but apparently onions could last the winter, and were now currently flourishing in Edryd’s garden. 

“Only a little.” She gave him a quick recapitulation of what had happened between Caitriona and Aurus. “Other than that, essentially nothing.” They ambled over to another corner of the garden.

Edryd knelt again, this time in front of some squash. (Her time with him had led her to become very acquainted with different types of vegetables.) “I heard,” he said slowly, cutting one squash away from its stem. “That they weren’t wrong. About what they saw.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“My father has had suspicions about what lies beyond the Endless Sea for years. Supposedly, when he was young, there were reports of something peculiar along the coastline. Nothing substantial, but enough to make local leaders call for a ban on sailing.”

She grunted a little under the unexpected weight of the squash. “And now? What did he think?”

“He thinks that something lies beyond our borders.”

“Obviously.”

Edryd chucked a loose piece of the stem at her. “No, seriously. He sees the sailors’ testimonies as truth. Confirmation that we’re not ‘meant’ to travel beyond our island.”

“Even though they’re drunkards?”

Edryd gave her an exasperated glance. She held up her arms in defense. “I’m just quoting my mother.”

“Yes, Anneith, even though they’re drunkards. And reports of strange occurrences have been coming from the sea for years. Not recently, but we  _ know  _ that more lands lie beyond our island. Of course they do. But is it the gods’ will for us to find those places?” He stabbed aggressively at another squash. “Maybe not.”

“Do you really think it’s the gods who are doing all this, though?”

“Not the gods themselves, but . . . some sort of fate. Doesn’t this all seem strange to you, Anneith? That we have had years of silence and then, all of a sudden, our sailors come back traumatized?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Did your father tell you anything else about what exactly they said?”

“They said that they saw regular beings. Like you and I. But something in them—some natural instinct they never knew they had—told them to run. According to the first mate of one ship, he and the rest of his crew barely made it onboard before the creatures lashed out at them, and darkness enveloped them. He doesn’t even remember sailing away.”

Chills ran up and down her spine. “How can this be?”

Edryd gave her a grim smile, and tossed another squash at her. “Isn’t that what I said?”

 

~*~

 

It was on her mind all week. 

Staring down at her book, she barely realized she had been reading the same verse about plagues and epidemics for the past half hour before she heard someone calling her name. “Anneith?” 

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she looked up and saw Hellas peering at her. “We can do this another time, if you would prefer that.” 

“No, no, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. 

He closed his book. They had been doing midnight sessions ever since he had first brought her to the library. But even after half a month of research, they had found almost nothing. “What’s worrying you?”

She scoffed slightly. “Why do you think I’m worried about something?”

He nodded towards her hands. “Because you’re shredding the edges of that priceless page.”

“What—” she looked down and yelped. Her fingers had been running along the corner of the already-crumbling papyrus. “Oh, gods!”

“At your service.”

“ _ Hellas!  _ What—I—!”

“Don’t worry, love.” He waved a hand over the corner of the page that she had nervously torn up. The pieces struggled together, and even after Hellas’s dark power had mended them together, she could still clearly see the cracks. “It won’t be perfect,” he conceded. “But I think we’ll get close.”

She rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s bothering you?” He leaned closer across the table. “Perhaps I can help.”

Her eyes met his. For some reason, his dark stare had seemed less cold in the past few weeks, although maybe it was just her hallucination. “Maybe you can.”

Hellas leaned back in his chair, amusement crossing his face. “Try me.” 

“Fine. What do you know of what lies . . .” she trailed off before waving a hand at nothing in particular. “Beyond?”

“You’re going to have to be just a tad more specific than that.”

“Beyond the island.”

“There are many things beyond your island, Anneith. Other worlds. Immortals you’ve never seen, and other species you’ve probably never heard of.”

“Like what type of species?”

Hellas’s smile faltered, and the same darkness that she had become accustomed to in the early weeks of knowing him reappeared. “I’m not sure you’d want to know.”

She leaned forward on her elbows. “I’m asking you to tell me.”

“Anneith—”

“—I’m a walking disaster, the least you could do is reveal some of the world’s mysteries to me.”

“Anneith—”

“—I suppose it’s alright if you don’t. I guess I’ll just go home and rethink my priorities. That’s alright.”

A hint of his amusement returned. “Is this how you manipulate people? Pity-baiting and then aggression?”

She couldn’t hold back an answering smile, although it seemed inappropriate for the occasion. “Something along those lines.”

The dark god threw up his hands in defeat. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He rose out of his chair, and Anneith watched his face fall back into sobriety. She couldn’t help but shift in her seat as he began to pace relentlessly. It looked like he was gathering his thoughts, but—why? Was he afraid? 

No, he couldn’t be. Gods weren’t afraid. 

Finally, he stopped. Turned to face her. “This is coming from the recent panic among you and your islanders about the sailors?”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Are you stalling?”

“Not in the least.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Alright, alright. There are . . . other beings in the world. As I said before. But there are only so many lands in close proximity to your island. So many lands that your sailors could have traveled to. And the one that they most likely went to . . . well, there’s no name for it. It is a land shrouded in mystery, beyond even the gods’ observations.”

“There are inhabitants there, yes?”

“Yes. The inhabitants of that land call themselves the Valg.”

“The Valg.” The words tasted strange on her tongue, the hard consonant at the end reverberating at the back of her throat and at the bottom of her lungs. 

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know anything about them? I find that hard to believe.” 

Hellas shifted slightly. “We have tried to distance ourselves from them. We do not interfere with your dealings with them— “your” being immortals and any other species we have established dialogue with. Occasionally we turn back a ship if we believe that it will not bring out favorable conclusions.”

“So why didn’t you turn the most recent ship back?”

“We haven’t had to, in years. You immortals did that yourself, with your warnings against sailing. And Cathal has been occupied with other business away from the island. He wasn’t here to manage the sailors, which proved to be unfortunate.”

“Why did they attack the sailors?”

Hellas shook his head. “I don’t know. No one knows their exact motives.”

“And they’re just lingering across the sea?”

“Anneith.” He crouched down in front of her, nearly kneeling. He placed a hand on her forearm, and his gaze met hers. “Believe me when I tell you that there is nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing. The Valg have done nothing but protect their borders for the last five centuries.” 

“I believe you,” she said, shaking her head. “But it all seems so peculiar . . .” 

He offered her a reassuring smile. “I know. But it’s really nothing.”

“Right.”

“Shall we return to our research?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)


	12. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional, nor have I ever claimed to be one. Any representations of medical procedures from the following work should be disregarded as fiction. Please do not try at home.

“Any specialties around here, Anneith?”

Anneith took a sip from her cup, raising an eyebrow at the ginger-haired young male sitting across from her. “You’ve been here for the past three months, Aengus. I think if we had any attractions Aislin would have told you by now.”

“Aww, don’t degrade your home that much. It’s lovely. Better than Diarmuid, at least.”

“Anything is better than the Bay. That’s not much of a compliment.” Edryd remarked dryly, his elbow grazing her side as he reached for his own cup.

Aislin’s nose wrinkled as she observed the young lord drinking. “Tea. Tea, at a coffee shop, really, Edryd?”

He rolled his eyes. “Your cafe mocha is three-quarters sugar and milk. I wouldn’t be talking.”

Aislin spluttered. Edryd grinned.

“No, but seriously, Edryd, we are at a coffee shop. The least you could do is respect that.” Anneith groaned, resting her chin on her open palm as she turned to look at him.

“Excuse me? This is tea from the Cliffs. Especially from the Cliffs, in fact, tea that you can’t purchase anywhere else. And you’d rather drink bean water and milk?” He turned to Aengus, whose hands were already up in the air.

“Don’t pull me into this, mate.”

“Oh, but more interesting things are at stake, boys.”

Anneith didn’t like the predatory glint in her friend’s coffee-brown eyes. “I heard that our sweet, innocent young lady was completely drunk out on her ass at her own party.”

“It wasn’t much of a party, but alright.”

“I heard you met your other suitors,” remarked Edryd dryly.

Anneith pointed a finger at him. “Don’t start.”

“Who are they?” Asked Aengus.

“She probably doesn’t know, she was  _that_ drunk,” chortled Aislin.

“Lord Jaimes, Lord Graehem, and Deacon.”

“Not Lord Deacon?”

She shook her head at Aislin’s question. “He didn’t seem like a lord. Too . . . desperate?”

“No, he’s not a lord,” said Edryd dismissively.

“Do you know him?”

“Vaguely. His father worked for my mother’s parents—my grandparents—as a servant.”

“As servants?”

“Not for an extended period of time. Deacon’s family had a history of serving my mother’s family, but his father mixed himself into the right crowds, I suppose you would call it. Took on extra jobs, that sort of thing. Hardworking male. Came into quite a bit of money when one of his mentors down at the docks died and it was revealed that he was a fishing magnate.” Edryd looked pensive. “I think my mother tried to get back into Deacon’s father’s good graces, in the hopes of forming a bond, but he had no interest. I’ve seen Deacon around the Flatlands from time to time. He’s not much of a charmer, but not much of threat, either. From what I can tell, he’s just insecure in his fortune—” Edryd paused, as if realizing something. “—Wait. Did you say Lord Graehem?”

Anneith blinked. “Yes.”

Edryd began to shake his head violently. “No. Stay away from him.”

“Why?”

“Graehem is a sneaky son of a bitch who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. He’s old, old nobility. He can claim concrete ancestry back to the beginnings of record-keeping. His family controls the entire island, economically, politically—the whole underground system.”

Chills ran up and down her spine. “Has—has he done anything significant?”

“His nickname among his peers in academia was ‘Eagle.’ He’s sly, cold, and amoral. I’ll admit that plagiarizing and cheating is common, but most are caught and exposed.”

“What Edryd is trying to say is that he was caught,” added Aengus helpfully, resting an arm on the back of Aislin’s chair.

“You cheated?” Aislin smirked. “I never pinned you as a bad boy, Edryd.”

“I was caught very quickly,” he said sourly. “And it was one assignment. Graehem has falsified entire papers, article, essays—it’s how he’s currently the leader of his father’s company. A twenty-five-year-old, at the head of the island’s largest company? Impossible to do without pulling some strings. But in his case, he’s cut them altogether.” Edryd pointed at her, a warning. “And Deacon, knowing him, will cling to Graehem if it means he feels protected.”

Anneith shivered.

“You said you had three suitors. Who’s the third?” Aengus asked.

“Lord Jaimes. I don’t know where—”

“—I know him,” the young lord said sourly.

“Another morally dubious male?” Guessed Anneith, now sour as well.

“In some ways. Not nearly as irritating as Graehem is, but similar. Like a . . . lesser version of him. Jaimes is not exactly nefarious, but still aggressive. He has morals.” Aengus paused, a pensive look spreading across his face. “And a good background, I believe. His family is from Diarmuid, but a little younger than my own. We used to be tutored together. He was insufferable and arrogant. I’ll never know why he was the better student—”

“—we know,” said Edryd and Aislin in unison.

“Hush, children. Anneith . . . think of Jaimes as the lesser of two evils.”

“So,” Anneith said, slowly. “My only choice is a male who follows evil personified and can’t think for himself. This was a fantastic conversation.”

“We’re here for you,” reassured Aislin, reaching a hand across the table to hold Anneith’s. “If you ever need someone to cover up a murder, I’m always available.”

“Thank you.”

A great flurry of movements stirred up around them, as males and females gathered their things and exited. Aislin sighed. “I suppose afternoon tea is over, then?”

“Aww, don’t sound so upset about it, Ais,” teased Anneith, bumping shoulders with her friend as they stood. “You do this every day.”

“Actually . . .” Aislin took a soft breath as she looked at Anneith. “I’m . . . I’m leaving the Cliffs towards the end of the week. For Diarmuid. My mother found an excellent scholarly program for me to attend.”

“A . . . scholarly program?”

“She convinced the headmaster to accept me. I just received word yesterday. I . . . I don’t know when I’m going to get another chance like this, Anneith.” Aislin’s eyes were pleading.

It may as well have been just the two of them in that cafe. Waiters and guests and even Edryd and Aengus be damned. Suddenly Anneith was no longer herself, young and carefree and with suitors on her mind. She was ancient, burdened with all the weight and wars of the world. And this beautiful female standing in front of her, her oldest, truest friend—

There was nothing temporary about Aislin’s eyes. Not like the rolled-eye confessions of travel of the past. No, there was something serious, something impassively important in this.

And whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not, Aislin was saying goodbye. She was following her dreams, whatever those might have been. She was going to be an extraordinary female, amongst the snobby island patriarchy that they had grown up in. It was time—overdue, perhaps—for her to leave the Cliffs.

And try as she might, she was selfish. Oh so, so selfish. She wanted Aislin to stay. And it wasn’t wholly because they were friends, or even because she considered Aislin her sister. No, something deep inside her cried at the thought of Aislin leaving.

_Abandoning you. Abandoning._

Anneith knitted together a smile. “I’m happy for you, Ais.”

Aislin seemed to deflate with relief. “Thank you, Anneith. Thank you, thank you,” She threw herself forward into Anneith’s chest, wrapping her much taller frame around her.

“I love you,” the beautiful lady whispered, and Anneith could hear the tears in her voice. “I love you, Anneith. And being away won’t change that. It will never change that.”

“I love you too, Aislin,” she whispered back. “I—thank you. Thank you for it all.”

Pulling away, she glanced at Edryd and Aengus, both of whom were standing awkwardly to the side. “Well,” she said, collecting herself despite the growing uneasiness in her chest. “I didn’t realize you two were such eavesdroppers.”

“On the contrary, my lady,” said Aengus with an infuriatingly roguish grin. He offered her his arm. She looped her own through, in an exaggeratedly large movement. “We are but charming, humble young males seeking to court the lovely Lady Anneith.”

Edryd snorted behind him, and she could see Aislin mirror her arm loop around Edryd’s arm. His arm hadn’t been offered.

She pointed a finger at Aengus, still wearing his typical shit-eating grin. “Too fucking soon.”

 

~*~

 

There was nothing much to say about Aislin’s departure.

It was another ordinary Saturday morning. But today, Anneith would not be spending it in the library. Instead, she stood on the front steps of Aislin’s home, congregated with Lady Glain and some of the other servants. Aislin’s father was on yet another business tour around the island, but he would meet his daughter at Diarmuid.

“Write to me, alright? Let me know what you need, how you are doing.” Glain adjusted the shawl around her daughter’s shoulders.

Aislin rolled her eyes. “I know, Mother, I know. This isn’t my first excursion, after all.”

“No,” admitted Glain. “But it _is_ the first time you’re going to be away indefinitely.” A worried look crossed the lady’s face. “Perhaps we were too eager to attend—”

“ _—Mother_ ,” said Aislin exasperatedly, shooting a matching expression over her mother’s shoulder at Anneith as she embraced Glain. “Enough. We’ve already made the decision, and it would be remiss to stay.”

“I suppose you’re right, I suppose you’re right.” Murmured Glain.

“Mother, I’m sorry, I think I may have left one of my hair combs upstairs? I’m not sure—”

“—no, no. You stay here, I’ll go fetch it.” Glain swiped a kiss across Aislin’s smooth forehead and headed back inside the manor.

Anneith leaned on the banister. “You hate hair combs.”

Her friend sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “It was the only way to get her away. She’s been hounding me day and night, asking me did I pack this, or did I pack that. I don’t think she’s grasped the fact that we’ll be just a day’s trip apart by carriage.”

“Hmm.” Anneith shifted. “I’m sorry that Caitriona didn’t come to see you off.”

Indeed, Caitriona was currently being held hostage at the Leander. She could only imagine her sister sulking as she embroidered alongside Malvolia.

Aislin smirked. “I bet she is, too.”

“She said ‘good luck,’” Anneith offered.

A silence fell between them. Aislin had never been without words.

“We’ll see each other again, won’t we?” Her friend asked quietly, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. She did not meet Anneith’s eyes.

“I don’t know.” It was something she had thought about at length. No matter what Aislin said, something in the air hung heavy. Hung final.

Aislin took Anneith’s hands. “You will always be with me,” she insisted, voice wavering with the tears in her eyes. “And I will always be with you. Now and forever. Write to me, and I will answer. Shout, and I will hear. Run, and I will follow.”

She nodded mutely. There was nothing that she could say. A sob broke itself free from Aislin’s throat, and she launched herself at Anneith, tightly wrapping her arms around her neck. “I love you, Anneith.”

She squeezed back just as tightly. “I love you too, Aislin.” She inhaled the bergamot scent rolling off of her, making a mental note of it.  _This could be the last time I smell this._

“Aislin? I found the hair combs!” Glain’s face popped up near them, and Anneith broke away first. Aislin swiped at the tears on her face.

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Oh, girls, don’t cry! This isn’t the end. Unless you’re not planning on coming home for the holidays—” Glain’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“—no, no, I am! I swear!”

“Then we have nothing to worry about!” Glain smiled kindly at Anneith.

“I’m afraid we have to leave soon, my lady,” the carriage driver called from afar. “Otherwise we won’t make it there until tomorrow morning.”

“Quickly, then,” ordered Aislin’s mother, shooing her daughter up into the carriage. She pecked a kiss on her daughter’s cheek. “Write, eat, visit—”

“—I know, I know!” Called Aislin as the carriage began to roll away. She stuck her head out the side, waving a hand. “Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye! Good—” Wind, and distance carried the sweet tones of her voice away, and if her heart hadn’t ached before, it surely did now.

She and Glain stood at the foot of the steps as Aislin’s carriage faded into the distance, smaller than a leaf on a tree.

Anneith stared at the spot where the carriage had last been visible. One of the most important people in her life, and she had disappeared in an instant. Of course, it wasn’t as if Aislin was dead. But she felt a pang in her heart, a jealousy that had been coupled with the grief. Aislin was becoming someone important; the first female at one of the most prestigious programs on the island. She was brilliant and independent and perfect and everything in between.

Anneith was a nobody. A breath and a mile away from all the privileges that her position afforded her. She would be burdened down with a husband and children before she knew it.

“Anneith.”

She glanced to her side to see Glain peering at her. The lady offered her a motherly smile. “I know it certainly isn’t easy,” she said. “Watching your oldest friend leave. And I know that you’re in the middle of your duties and your youth. I was like you, once. I just wanted to let you know—” she placed a gentle hand on Anneith’s shoulder. “—that should you need any guidance, any assistance, I am here for you.”

She wasn’t sure what to say. Glain had always been a warm figure; the watchful eye when she and Aislin had played as children, the one who listened to her despite the dismissal of the other ladies during those awful afternoon tea sessions. But this, this was far more familiar than Anneith had ever thought herself to be with Glain.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Glain said quickly. “But I know that your mother can be demanding. Just . . . just let me know if you need anything. We’re practically right next door, after all.”

“Thank . . . thank you,” whispered Anneith.

A soft smile broke over Glain’s lips, a dazzling complement to her daughter’s. “Of course.” With one final pat of Anneith’s back, the lady headed back into the manor, the sun rising over the house and reflecting her dark golden hair. Every inch a picture, like her daughter.

Anneith returned to the Leander, her heart heavy but lightening, brought back to equilibrium.

 

~*~

 

Anneith leaned against the pillows on her bed, and sighed quietly. It had been over a month since Aislin had left. Although she certainly felt the loss (there was no one to drag her out to the square, or to the cafe; Caitriona was on holiday with one of her other friends in the Bay of Mare), it had been strangely quiet in the Cliffs lately. Everything was routine: the tea sessions, the conversations with Caoimhe down in the kitchens. It was almost like old times; before last November.

She allowed her head to lean back against her pillows, her fingers slipping from the pages of her book. She could feel her eyelids drooping dangerously, and her body became lethargic as they sank into her soft bed. The only source of light in the dark room was a bright orb of golden light hanging above her head. Anneith yawned, snuggling into her covers, book abandoned. She supposed it was time to extinguish the light, to get to bed—

—a scream split the silence.

Anneith bolted upright, book slamming to the floor. The orb, which had been in the process of dimming, was suddenly electrified with blinding light. She could feel her head swiveling on her neck, searching for the source of the scream. She bolted across her room, flinging the door open. Peering out into the hallway, she could see nothing. There was no one in the corridor, no one carrying a candle or orb of their own to see what the commotion was. Unless . . .

Unless the danger was inside her own room.

Anneith whirled around, heartbeat bursting out of her chest as she surveyed the room. Nothing. Only darkness greeted her as she stepped cautiously over the threshold again, orb floating above her outstretched palm. Perhaps if she blinked—? No! What if the monster—danger—whatever—got her?

Chills ran up her arms. She could scream, call for help. But she was the only one who had heard the scream, wasn’t she? If any of the other occupants had heard it, surely they would have risen already?

Anneith restrained a cry as another shout rattled her head. This time, however, it was a cry of agony, of pain.

 _Go,_ hissed a voice inside her head. Her own, she thought in relief.

 _Where?_ She queried, taking deep breaths.

Another splitting scream, and Anneith’s eyelids forced themselves down. This time, she cried out. Her body felt as if it was being twisted in two— _like a noodle,_ she thought dumbly—warped and torn and broken.

Her body hit the hard ground.

Dazed, Anneith picked her head up. Why was it freezing? Why was there wind? Was there a draft in the house—

Anneith could barely breathe.

She wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t even in the Leander.

She was outside of the house. _The_ house, the one in the Héloïse Forest. But how in the name of the Great Goddess—?

But as her mind raced, curiously, her heart began to slow. As if it had been anticipating this. As if it was at peace, finally.  _What the fuck?_

Her legs collapsed under her as she struggled to stand. Black streaks of dirt covered her nightgown—gods, she hadn’t even changed out of her nightgown? What had—

Her eyes snapped towards the cottage as a roar of pain sounded from the abode. The same roar that had made her frantic in the Leander.

Legs shaking, hands trembling, she walked the mere three steps to the door. Held her hand out to the handle. The door swung open.

She stumbled inside, the sudden transition from the cold outside to the toasty interior making her a little woozy. Cursing herself for her weakness, she turned her sights inside and—

“ _— Anneith?”_

Anneith gasped, half of her breath exhaling in horror and the other catching in her throat.

Lying down on the sofa, hand clutched across his chest, was Hellas. The dark god was wincing in pain, pupils dilated out of proportion. His chest was soaked in blood. Blood smeared the furniture and floor leading up to him, seeping across the floors and onto the carpet. With a dull recognition, Anneith thought: _S_ __o_ gods bled scarlet like any other people. _

“You’re hurt.” She said dully. There was no tone that could convey the sense of disarray her mind was in without insult.

“Anneith—” Hellas groaned as he attempted to sit up.

_Help him help him help him you fool_

“Don’t be stupid,” she hissed, rushing towards him and pushing him back down. She realized, with no small amount of shock, that it was easy. Forcing him back down. Hellas was easily almost twice her weight, and a god. She would have difficulty pushing down an ant, much less a god.

“You—you shouldn’t be here,” he choked out.

Her eyes roamed over his body, assessing the condition of his wounds. In the back of her mind, she lamented that she hadn’t read more medical books. But then again, how was she supposed to know that one day she’d be faced with an injured god? “And yet here I am.”

She stifled the urge to break away as Hellas’s hand came up and gripped her by the wrist. “No,” he insisted, dark eyes boring into hers with an intensity she had never seen before. “You—shouldn’t—be—here. You shouldn’t even know I’m here.”

She stared at him coolly. “Where are you injured?” Her eyes narrowed. “And why aren’t you healing?”

Hellas laughed brokenly. “I’m glad to see your concern for me isn’t paramount.”

She was a millisecond away from slapping him. “I’m not going to let you bleed out, you bastard.”

His eyes held hers for a moment, as if deciding what to tell her. He conceded. “My—my chest,” he coughed. He moved back onto his back, exposing the expanse of his chest to her. He had already undone the laces in the front, obviously in an attempt to heal himself. Anneith tried not to start at the sight of the large gash running between Hellas’s two pectorals. It was bloody, and not in the least bit superficial. Had he not been a god, Hellas surely would have died by now.

“What’s your diagnosis, doctor Anneith?”

“Are you in danger of dying?”

“No.”

“You fucking liar,” she muttered under her breath. Maybe he wasn’t going to die, but he was going to be supremely fucked up at the very least. Think, Anneith, think.

Anneith’s head snapped up, around the cottage, around the kitchen, anywhere. “Gauze. Do you have gauze? Or any sort of pad?” She remembered reading once about first aid. Something about gauze. And didn’t all heroes in literature fix things with gauze?

Hellas jerked his head towards the kitchen. “In the first cabinet from the left.”

Anneith sped towards the kitchen, hands grabbing at everything and anything she could find. Things went flying, food slammed down on the floor, but she didn’t care. The cabinet door nearly broke off of its hinges as she swung it open, eyes scanning the interior for gauze. “Fuck it,” she snapped, and swept everything into her arms, running back to Hellas.

By some miracle, her fingers managed to comb through the large stack of assorted junk to close on a roll of gauze. She blindly let the cloth spill over her fingers before using her teeth to rip it off. She looked back at Hellas, who was trying not to wince. “Can you sit up?”

He gave her an insufferable grin, although its effectiveness was significantly diminished by the immediate expression of pain afterwards. “As milady wishes.”

Hellas pushed himself up on his elbows—and immediately let out a cry and would have fell back if Anneith hadn’t slipped her hands under his back and supported him. Hellas groaned, snarling at the pain of having to bend his body to conform to the curve of the sofa.

Anneith stuck her hands underneath his shirt, praying to the Great Goddess and all the gods she knew of—including the idiot in front of her—that she was doing this correctly. She looped the strip of gauze around his back, criss-crossing it over the front of his chest—and cursed when she realized she’d need more gauze. _No matter, no matter_ , she told herself firmly, although her hands were now shaking. But how would she secure the gauze? It was too late to dig through the mountain of miscellaneous crap next to her for some sort of adhesive or any sort of sticky substance.

She looked back at the god. “Sorry,” she said. “This might hurt. I don’t know.”

“What—?”

Anneith stuffed his mouth with the rest of the roll of gauze.

She ripped the gauze off, and instead placed her hands on his chest. Her sister was adept at first aid; she was not. But she had been training and reading with Hellas for weeks now. She hadn’t forgotten the first test he had assigned her.

_Light the fireplace._

Hellas roared as her burning hand, warmed by flames, touched his open wound. The other hand held his skin together. _Short bursts,_ she reminded herself. _Not enough to blacken._

Her hands moved down the gash, and slowly, slowly, she could see the wound coming together. Not perfect, certainly far from good, but acceptable. There was no more blood.

Hellas was still panting when Anneith collapsed, exhausted. She felt empty, her magic drained. And sleepy again, like she had been at the Leander. She cracked open a weary eyelid to look at the god. “Your . . . you’ll heal on your own now, correct?”

Hellas spit the gauze out of his mouth, looking down at his chest. “I—I would assume so.”

Anneith closed her eyes. “Good.”

“Thank you,” he said softly.

All of the power was gone, all of the adrenaline that had helped her. She could fall asleep, right now, against these lovely soft cushions . . .

She bolted up again, eyes narrowing. “What the hell were you doing that got you nearly killed?”

“But did I die?”

“Answer the fucking question, Hellas.”

He winced as he sat up again, but shook his head. “It’s . . . confidential.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s personal business.”

“‘Personal’ means nothing to you nor I anymore.”

“It was business on behalf of my brothers.”

“Liar. I’ve heard you talk about your family. You despise all of them except for Silba.”

“Anneith . . .”

She stared at him. “No,” she said.

“No . . .?”

She was overstepping her boundaries by even uttering this. Overstepping her own boundaries. And who was she to assume, who was she to bolster herself that much, conjecturing that—

“Were you looking for information on me?”

“What?”

“Were you,” she repeated. “Trying to find out more about—” she gestured furiously to herself, unable to voice her thoughts.

“Anneith,” Hellas said warily.

She launched herself off of the sofa.

“Anneith, please.”

She ran a hand through her tangled hair, gripping chunks of it between her fingers. Hellas watched her warily, still frozen by his pain.

A cavernous breath exhaled itself from her lungs, and she sagged along with it.

“Anneith, please, this was not your fault, I didn’t even tell you about what—”

“—I will not,” she said, her voice wavering. Refusing to look at him. “Have people—gods, fine!—be protective barriers for me. To nearly die in the process of trying to—trying to—!” Her voice collapsed on itself, and she could barely breathe.

“Anneith,” Hellas croaked, reaching for her. But he was an inch too far as she winnowed. As if she had never been there in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever top Aislin's farewell words to Anneith? Probably not. 
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr at: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)


	13. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell if this chapter is angst or crack. That should tell you enough about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (Kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Edryd (ed-VER-d)

Life went on. 

Even though she quite did not want it to. She tried her best not to think of it, of—

—she couldn’t even bear to think of him. 

Aislin was gone. Caitriona was still on holiday. Aengus had returned home. Edryd had returned home. She had lain in bed for nearly two hours in the morning, staring up at the ceiling. Thinking about absolutely nothing at all. Her body felt heavy, as if the sheets magnetized it. It had been nearly noon before Caoimhe had pounded on her door and demanded that she wasn’t going to be punished for her lazy lady sleeping in. So she had gotten up, bathed, and thrown on something half-decent. 

“Lady Anneith, you look stunning.” 

She looked dully at the young lord seated opposite her. Graehem merely smiled at her over the edge of his teacup. “Thank you.” 

It was still bitterly cold for March, the snow on the ground holding siege against the bright sun. Winds whipped the Cliffs, chilling the Leander and blowing inland. Fires had been roaring in every room in the house, but it wasn’t enough to stop the shiver that ran down Anneith’s lightly covered arms. The sitting room in which she sat boasted one of the largest fires in the house, and yet, it wasn’t enough. 

She nearly jumped out of her seat as she felt something warm and soft encircle her shoulders. Anneith tried not to flinch as she looked up and saw Graehem’s emerald eyes staring at her. Their usual edge had been dulled. “I noticed you were cold.” 

“There’s—there’s no need for you to—” she stopped short of the word.  _ Sacrifice.  _

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m plenty warm,” chuckled Graehem as he settled back into the armchair across from her. “But I hear that illnesses have been sweeping over the eastern portion of the Island lately.”

Graehem’s cloak was large and warm, and she resented her body for instinctively curling into it. 

“Your father is a fascinating male,” he said conversationally, an elbow propped up casually. “He has truly revolutionized the trading industry on the Island, hasn’t he?” 

“Yes, I’m sure.” Her answer was every bit the dictated, smooth response her mother had drilled into her. 

“And to have done it all before the age of fifty, what an accomplishment. One of the richest men on the island, yes?”

“Yes.” 

“Impressive.”

“I believe you’ve mentioned.”

Graehem paused for a moment, then smiled—bashfully—and set down his teacup. “I must apologize, my lady.” 

“For what?”

“I’ve been raving about your father, when really—” he gestured “—the true allure sits in front of me.” 

She stood abruptly. “It’s been lovely having you, Lord Graehem, but I believe that I’m feeling just a bit faint. It’s quite cold, and I believe that you need your cloak back anyway.” She slipped the violet mantle off her shoulders and handed it to him, trying not to bunch the fabric in her fist too much. 

“Lady Anneith, wait!” His hand shot out and encircled her wrist. She flinched, but froze. “I didn’t mean to—well, to be quite so obnoxious about your background. I merely wanted to ease into our conversation.” He lowered his voice, to a sweet, soft tone. “You are far more impressive than your father, after all.” He gestured behind her. “Please, sit.” 

Over his shoulder, Anneith caught sight of her mother peering into the room, eyes fiery as she stared her daughter down. Her body betrayed her as she slowly sat back down, the feeling of the cushion against her skin like a brand. 

“What do you enjoy doing, Lady Anneith?” Graehem flashed her the same charming smile he had given at the start of their encounter. 

“Nothing much, I’m afraid.” She tried to discreetly look at the grandfather clock behind her. How much longer was this going to go on?

He tilted his head. “Nothing? What about reading?” At her expression, he chuckled. “Your mother was telling me about your passion for novels. Do you have any favorites?” 

“No.”

“Forgive me if I find that hard to believe, my lady.” 

“Reading isn’t something I share with others, unfortunately.”

“Ah. That’s understandable.” 

She stifled a choke, a reflex. “And what do you enjoy doing, Lord Graehem?” She plastered on a smile. 

Behind her, the grandfather clock chimed, and she struggled to stop herself from deflating. 

 

~*~

 

She exhaled as she watched Graehem winnow away in the front courtyard, and she let her hand drop to her side. Turning away, she entered the Leander again, letting her muscles relax. Finally, she could return to—

She cried out as a sharp pain slammed into her cheek, her hand flying up to soothe it. Malvolia’s scarlet face came into view, hand still held aloft. “What the fuck,” her mother snarled “was that?” 

“Mother—”

The lady of the house gave a sharp laugh. “No, no, no, Anneith. No more excuses.” She fisted her hand into the back of Anneith’s dress, pulling her daughter towards her. Malvolia’s breath warmed her ear. “Do you know how hard your father and I worked to bring that boy here? How much wheeling and dealing we had do with his family to even get them to consider making a deal with someone as unqualified and useless as you? You will not,” she breathed, “fuck this up for us.” 

Anneith stumbled backwards as her mother suddenly let go of her and pushed her. Malvolia’s eyes were still fiery, and she was panting even harder than Anneith. Slowly, she backed away from her mother. Her cheek still stung. It wasn’t the first time her parents had taken to physically punishing her, but after the silence of the past couple of years, she had thought—

“Oh, and Anneith?” She froze at the sound of her mother’s voice, lighter but no less grating. “Don’t bother going into the library anymore. It’s warded. For your protection, of course. Don’t want you getting distracted before you find a husband, now, do we?” 

Pain bloomed in her chest, so strongly that she nearly doubled over. Her voice was rosebush smooth as she replied. “No, Mother.” 

Her legs carried her all the way upstairs, before landing her in front of her bedroom door. She stared at the smooth mahogany, seeing but not quite believing. But what was there to see? It was just her bedroom door. Just an entrance to the place where she slept, nothing special—

_ I will never see my books again.  _

No. Well, perhaps her door served more of a metaphorical purpose in her life. What about that sliver of sky peeking through the clouds, through the window at the end of the hall? Surely that was beautiful, that deserved more attention—

_ I will never see my books again. _

Was that a bird she saw, sleek and black? It spread its wings as it soared past the window, and it was as if she could hear the  _ thumpthumpthump  _ of its pinions. The sound echoed in her ears, a dull backdrop to her thoughts. What a magnificent sight, birds didn’t come by often—

_ I will never see my books again.  _

A sob broke free from her throat as her legs collapsed underneath her. Only sheer will kept her from falling face first into the carpet, eyes still fixed dully on her mahogany door. Shehadlostshehadlostshehadlost. She cursed herself, a scream unleashing itself from the caverns of her body. She was so, so, so, stupid, stupid, stupidstupidstupid. Her books, her beautiful books, the stories and characters that felt as if they had been crafted for her, it was—it was—

Something in her broke, and her chest heaved and caved as she silently sobbed, tears dripping into her mouth and down her neck, their salty taste flooding her body. She would never see her books again. Not now, not when she was married and her whole world became her husband and her family and freedom would be a whisper of the past. Forget this, forget whatever this strange pulse in her powers was. The gods would leave her, just another lowly immortal, onto the next important thing. She was a dot in their vast constellation, a speck of dust not fit to be a star. 

Her head fell, her gaze facing the rich red carpet that she knelt on. Phlegm rose in her throat. She forced it back down. Tears flooded her cheeks. She swiped them away. 

At the opposite end of the hall, chatter bubbled up, and her heart began to pound. It didn’t matter whether the words in question were from her family, the servants, or strangers. They all blended together. Those who sought to hurt her and those who were indifferent were one and the same. 

Her palms slipped against the carpet, the raw material slicing into them before she laid them flat. Breath caught and released in her throat, over and over again. Drowning in her own air, heartbeat like an omen, coming closer 

and closer 

and closer. 

She wanted to scream, to cry out, for the sake of it. She wanted to scream until her throat was raw with effort, until her tears caused hiccups that burned her chest and stopped her crying. Her head hung limp, heavy on her shoulders, on her neck. 

Voices crept closer 

and closer 

and closer. 

Her nerves electrified. 

Something inside her, something intimate, something visceral flared up. 

The same legs that had collapsed under her picked her up. Flew her to the stairwell at the end of the hallway, past the servants’ quarters. Arms pushed into the door and the cold swept across her face, and she was running. 

Her mind was empty, so cursedly and blissfully empty as her feet hit the ground running. Dirt and

rocks smeared and sliced into her soles. The wind whipped at her dress, too thin for the still-freezing April. But she ran. 

She ran the distance from her house to Aislin’s. She ran the quarter mile from her house to the edge of the manors on the Cliff. She ran the half mile from her house to the edge of town. Her body was exuberant, thrumming, full. 

As she neared Grainne Square, she heard the chatter of the townspeople. 

And suddenly she was back at the Leander. 

Her euphoria gone, her breathing back. Her heart beat wildly, and she did double over this time, her chest heaving with the need to take air in. Her lungs screamed, and her legs wobbled with the effort of standing upright. 

She wished that her best friend was here. 

Aislin would have a smile, a joke, a teasing attitude towards her.  _ “Oh,” _ she’d say.  _ “Decided to run away, eh? Should have consulted me first. I would have given you some coins for the road.” _

Anneith watched as the patrons of the marketplace bustled around, some demanding for bargain prices, others just trying to shop for groceries. All these immortals, with lives of their own, with problems greater than hers—what right did she have to weep, to scream, to curse the world? She had a warm bed, a full belly, and clothes on her back. Icy wind swept over her body and she gave a violent shake. 

“Anneith? Sweetheart, what are you doing here? Are you alright?” 

Anneith whirled around, guard up. 

Lady Glain held her hands up, a wicker basket dangling from one crooked elbow. “It’s just me, it’s just me.”

“Lady Glain! I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammered. 

“That’s alright. What happened? Are you alright?” 

Glain was peering at her kindly, eyes tilted upwards in sympathy. No wariness, no judgement. Just worry. Anneith felt like crying at the mere sight of this kind female, who didn’t shy away from her—as wild as she probably looked. 

“I’m—I’m fine.” 

“Sweetheart, you’re shivering all over! Here, here.” Glain swiped the shawl off of her shoulders and wrapped it around Anneith’s. 

“My lady, I couldn’t—”

“Oh, shush, shush. It’s freezing out here. Why don’t we stop for a drink at the cafe?” 

“Lady—”

“—my treat. Come on now, don’t be polite.” 

Anneith could only let herself be ushered by the lady’s strong grip, towards the fragrance of coffee.

 

~*~

 

Anneith tentatively molded her hands around the steaming cup of cappuccino that Lady Glain had ordered for her. The lady herself was taking small sips from her latte, eyes looking past Anneith. She stared down at the warm brown liquid, unsure of what to say.  _ I’m sorry I looked crazy? I’m sorry I looked so terrible that you had to step in to prevent me from launching my family into permanent ostracization? This cappuccino is really good, thanks for ordering it for me?  _

“The weather really is lovely, isn’t it?” Anneith’s eyes slowly traveled up as Glain broke the silence. The sunshine illuminated the lady’s dark umber skin, giving it a beautiful, healthy glow. Her matching dark eyes were transfixed, still frozen in their kind expression. 

“Yes,” Anneith murmured. 

“Ah, well, it’s a little freezing,” said Glain thoughtfully. “But the sun is back, the snow is melting . . . finally, finally, spring is coming.” 

Anneith nodded, but stayed silent. 

“Anneith—and you by _ no means _ have to tell me this, but—why were you out in such a manner earlier today? What happened?”

Glain’s stare was so magnetic that she found herself holding it. This was a woman who had cared for her for so long, a woman that—if she had to be honest—she trusted just as much as Caoimhe when it came to secret-keeping and comfort. Her tongue spoke of its own accord. “It’s . . . it’s nothing, really. Just my mother.” 

Glain nodded understandingly. “And the suitors, I’ll wager.” 

“And the suitors.” 

“Well, Anneith—” Glain’s chair scraped against the ground as she moved closer “—let me tell you something.” The lady smiled, a little mischief blooming through. “Now, I didn’t know your mother all that well when we were young, but we debuted at roughly the same time. She was a little older. And it’s true that the entire island was uprooted into a frenzy when she came of age.  _ The beautiful Lady Malvolia, whose father owned close to half the island? _ A war would be waged over her hand, some joked.” Glain stirred her latte. “Your mother, I’m sure, has told you that there were dozens upon dozens of suitors at her door on her eighteenth birthday.” 

Glain leaned forward, a soft smile splitting her crimson lips. “That’s not true.”

Anneith blinked. “What?”

The lady laughed softly, falling back into her chair. “Your mother . . . was not the most charming female. She may have been the wealthiest, by a large margin, but she was nowhere near as enchanting as she often makes it out to be, now. In fact, she was quite off-putting. She was . . . cold, aloof, and haughty. She knew that she could do essentially every terrible deed in the world and she would still end up with a husband. Well, she didn’t go out and commit genocide, but she was cold enough—and scary enough—that males were not too keen on seeking her out.” 

“But . . .” 

“Oh, the part about her dozens of suitors is true. But they began to queue up only after much pushing on their parents’ part. My husband was one of her suitors—”

“Your husband?” Anneith could hardly believe it. 

Glain laughed. “Yes. Came back so traumatized that he refused to move to the Cliffs to inherit his parents’ home after they passed away. To this day, he tells me about it. But Anneith,” Glain took her hand in hers. “My point is that as much as your mother would like you to be everything she wasn’t, or everything that your peers want to be—take everything with a grain of salt.”

Anneith bowed her head. “Thank you, Lady Glain.”

Glain smiled encouragingly at her. “Please, just Glain is fine.” She looked towards the setting sun, and yelped a little. “I apologize, Anneith, but I told my husband to expect me back . . . well, right now!” 

“Oh, I’m sorry—”

“—It’s not your fault, don’t fret about it!” Glain stood and pushed her chair in, hefting her basket on her arm again. “I’ll see you soon, Anneith. Remember, my home is open to you at any time.” She winked. “I’ll have tea and biscuits on the table anytime you want.” 

“Thank you.”

“Have a good evening, my dear.” 

She watched as the lady drifted away. Anneith felt her lips curl gently into—not a smile, but—a not-frown. 

 

~*~

 

“I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.” 

Caoimhe smacked her in the back of her head. “Don’t invite such spirits into this house, child.” 

“Or without telling Caoimhe first,” noted Caitriona dryly, from her reclining position on Anneith’s bed. “She likes to be prepared. Heats up the oven, you know. For cooking monsters like the witch in Hansel and Gretel.” 

Caoimhe pointed a needle at the younger lady, equally intimidating. “You too, Caitriona.” 

“I don’t understand what the hell I’m supposed to be doing tonight,” Anneith hissed, pulling at her corset. “Edyrd isn’t here, and neither are the snakes.”

“Is that what you’ve taken to calling your other suitors?” Caitriona giggled. 

“It suits them well. Turn,” Caoimhe instructed. Her eyes narrowed at Anneith’s slim figure. “You can’t lose more weight, Anneith. The dress won’t suit you then.” 

“If I’m too skinny,” she complained, “then why am I wearing a corset?”

“Mother’s convinced you’re fat, which is the most preposterous thing I’ve heard in a long time. And she tried to import horse droppings from the Mountains of Melisande for fifty thousands marks because she claimed it was better fertilizer for her roses.” 

“Your mother is a beast of a female,” replied the attendant, teeth clenched around the silver needle as she fisted more of Anneith’s dress in her hand. “Always wailing about this or that.”

“Shh,” said Anneith sarcastically. “Or else she’ll sack you, and where will you go?”

“Hmph! The only reason I stay in this infernal house is because of you two.”

“Aww, Caoimhe!” Caitriona inched closer to the attendant, making her eyes snowglobe wide. “You love us that much?” 

“The pay is also good.” Caoimhe stepped away from Caitriona’s grasping claws. The younger lady let out a whine and tried to move closer. She let out a shriek as she tumbled off the bed, the delicate material of her gown scrunching underneath her weight. 

“Like a cow in a barn,” muttered Caoimhe under her breath. Anneith smiled. 

“How were the Plains, Caitriona?” 

“They were mediocre,” grunted her sister. “Not much to see.”

“I heard Aunt Macha showed you around.” 

“She did. She loves the quiet life, which is why she lives there, I suppose. But awfully dull for me.” 

“I can imagine. Ow!”

“There!” Declared Caoimhe triumphantly. “Pinned and sewed into place.”

“Pinned and sewed into my skin, you mean?”

“Hush your whining. Take a look.” 

Anneith spun around, the lilac skirt swishing around her ankles. The bodice was studded with tiny jewels, twinkling even under the dim lights in her room. Her breasts had been pushed up to their fullest extent (it was almost as if she had breasts now!), filling in the cups of her corset. The dress wasn’t awfully heavy, but she still felt wobbly as she strapped on cream-colored ankle-strap heels. “Thank you, Caoimhe.” 

“There you go. You’ll be prepared for anything now.” 

“You look fantastic.” Caitriona kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you downstairs.” The click of her sister’s heels followed her out and all the way down the hall. 

She turned back to the attendant. Caoimhe had her hands at her sides, eyes stuck to Anneith’s gown. “Caoimhe, are you alright?” 

As her friend of over a decade looked up, she was shocked to note the tears in her eyes. Caoimhe had almost never cried in front of her; in fact, she couldn’t remember the last time that she had seen such a sight. “Caoimhe, what’s—what’s wrong?”

The attendant took ahold of the lady’s arms, trembling with the effort. “You’re all grown up,” she said, in a shaking voice. “Grown up, going to balls, meeting suitors.” Her voice grew intense. “You should be protected, you should be—you should be everything your mother isn’t doing.” 

“Caoimhe, I—”

“—it’s unfair.” 

Silence fell between the two as the words fell from Caoimhe’s lips.  _ Unfair.  _ How many times had she thought the exact same, cursed the skies and the Goddess for giving her such a fate? How many times had she screamed and slept, words stringing themselves into mantras that would haunt her for days? And how many times had she quieted those thoughts, sat up straight with her fingers entwined in her lap, a reminder of the wealth she possessed clothing her, feeding her? There was no  _ unfair  _ in this situation. Her situation was anything but. 

Her eyes met Caoimhe’s, and she knew the female was thinking the exact same thing. “Thank you,” Anneith whispered. “For the past few years. It’s been . . . It has been a joy. To know you.” 

Caoimhe pulled her into her arms. Anneith leaned against her chest, the taller woman able to rest her chin on the top of her head without much effort. “If one of those males tries to touch you,” the female whispered fiercely. “I’ll cut his balls off and throw him in the oven.” 

 

~*~

 

“Again,” hissed Anneith as she and Caitriona made their way into the ballroom. “Why the—” her voice caught on the word in her mind, and she forced the feeling down. “Why am I here?” 

“I think it’s for Father’s business,” Her sister murmured back. “Something about attracting sponsors through your wedding invitations?”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Anneith said as she accepted a flute of champagne from a nearby tray. “So they’re prostituting me for money.” 

“Anneith, that’s the definition of prostitution. Just without the sex.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Anneith, sweetheart!” She stifled a groan as her mother floated over to them, her voice bubbly. “Lord Fraser, these are my daughters, Anneith and Caitriona.”

The lord bowed. “Pleased to meet you, my ladies. Your mother speaks highly of you.”

“Does she now?” Mused Caitriona, eyes innocently wide. She saw Malvolia tighten her lips. 

“Er, yes.” The male, elderly and neat, looked nice enough. Any noble that didn’t attempt to sneak a witty word in was golden, as far as Anneith was concerned. 

“Anneith, why don’t you show Lord Fraser around the room?” Malvolia’s icy stare made it clear she wasn’t asking. 

She faked a smile. “Of course. Lord Fraser?” She looped her arm into the one offered, and they set off. 

“Your home is very lovely.” 

“Thank you. It’s quite old, but in good condition.” 

“That’s what I want people to say about me.” 

She laughed. “Surely they do?” 

“No, no. It’s all just nagging from my wife and children about how I need to stop eating sweets. I can’t help my sweet tooth!”’ 

“I understand, I understand. My sister is the exact same. You mentioned your children?” 

“Ah, yes. I have two sons and one daughter . . .” 

Anneith lost track of how many times she spun around the room, and with how many different people. None were as charming as Lord Fraser, but at least they weren’t potential suitors. She could tolerate anyone, as long as they weren’t aiming for her hand. 

“What did she want?” Caitriona asked, spotting her sister returning. The younger sister bit into a miniature strudel, powdered sugar dusting all over her dress. 

Anneith rolled her eyes at the mention of her last walking partner. “She told me that I better hurry up and find a husband because I wouldn’t be fertile for much longer.” 

Her sister cackled through a mouthful of flaky pastry. “How old did she think you are, thirty?” 

“I don’t know. And I don’t want children anyway,” she muttered, although the statement felt lame, even to her. If marriage was in the cards, so was motherhood. 

“Really? Why not?” 

“I just . . .” How to explain, how to explain? It wasn’t that she didn’t like children. They were . . . fine. Not the glorious bundles of joy everyone made them out to be, but certainly better than the adults that she knew. She just . . . children were not interesting to her. She didn’t want to be responsible for taking care of a child. Anneith knew that motherhood did not have to limit a female’s life, but to her, it was the final shackle on her domestic life. “It’s not interesting to me.”

“Huh. Even I want children.”

“Do you?” 

“Well, yes. I mean, I like children. They’re cute. And I think I’d like the experience.” Indeed, Caitiona was a thousand times more affectionate than Anneith was. She was kind, and protective (albeit a bit wild at this age). 

“I think you would make a magnificent mother.” 

A soft smile broke over her sister’s lips. “Thanks, Anneith.” 

“Always.” She craned her neck, trying to see above the sea of aristocrats. “I’m going to go eat a little. Do you want anything?” 

Caitriona looked down at her plate, still piled high with desserts. “Are you really offering?” 

“No, not really.” 

“I take my thanks back.” 

Anneith rolled her eyes and made her way to the food table, snatching a plate. She was deciding whether or not to take cake or pie before she heard a whisper at her shoulder. “Boo.” 

She let out a small scream, the plate nearly falling out of her grip as she spun around. She sighed as she recognized the grinning face. “Edryd, what!—oh, never mind.” 

“What, you’re not happy to see me?” The young lord took his place at her side, examining the various offerings. “After all those circles around the room?”

“How long have you been here?” 

“About an hour.” 

“And you didn’t come to me sooner? What kind of knight in tarnished armor are you?” 

“A respectful one. You were in the middle of doing some sort of strange waltz with that female. I thought it would be ingenuous of me to interrupt.”

“Excuses, excuses.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Excuses!” Anneith couldn’t hold back her light laughter at Edryd’s exaggeratedly offended face. “I thought you were supposed to be in the Flatlands until the first of next month.” 

“I managed to convince my parents that I wanted to spend more time with my . . . ‘betrothed.’” 

“We’re not even officially engaged. Unless you’re proposing right now?” Anneith looked at him coyly, eyes blinking rapidly. 

Edryd grimaced. “Stop doing that. It looks like your eyelashes are going to fall off.” 

She swatted his arm, and he laughed. “Are your parents here? Are they hiding in the crowd waiting for me to take them for a spin around the room?”

“Would I trick you like that, my lady?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.” Edryd paused. “I think I have to rescind that proposal now.” 

She laughed, the sound warming her belly. Looping her arm through Edryd’s, she let herself be pulled to the center of the floor. Her hands found their natural position on the male’s shoulder and through his fingers. It felt so natural, she mused. 

Edryd halted. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Did we leave our food on the table?”

“. . . shit.”

As she turned, Edryd’s fingers still in hers, she could have sworn she saw a flash of midnight black out of the corner of her eye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment and tell me how you liked it!
> 
> Visit my Tumblr for more: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)


	14. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Graehem (gray-hem)  
> Neils (kneels)  
> Osla (oss-LAH)
> 
> Hey, sorry for the delay! School has abruptly sped up tenfold, and I've been having a bad few days (and week, probably, to come). But I'm already in the process of writing chapter fourteen, so maybe this schedule will hurry itself along!

“Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three,” counted Anneith, placing each carrot in the basket. “Thirty-three carrots.”

Caoimhe peered over at her side of the table. “Thirty-three? Are you sure?”

Anneith folded her arms. “I’m sure.”

“Because, you know, there was that time that you claimed there were fifteen apples on the tree, and when I went to make pie, I was twelve apples short—”

“—one time! One time!”

“Alright,” chuckled Caoimhe. “Chop them up.”

Anneith stared at her. “You made me count them, and put them back in the basket, just so I could take them out and chop them?”

“It’s practice. See all the hard work I have to do every day.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have to work so hard if you just chopped the carrots in the first place.”

“What a lip you have,” grunted Caoimhe.

Anneith laughed, reaching for a small chef’s knife and taking it to the orange vegetables. Bringing them down on several of them, she turned to the female next to her. “Is that stew for supper?”

“Yes.”

“You know my father hates stew.”

“Yes.” Caoimhe looked at her. “That’s why I’m cooking it.”

“What a rebel, you really—ow!” Instantly recoiling, Anneith dropped the knife, staring at the scarlet drops of blood littering the cutting board. The blade had dug deep into her finger, slicing it from tip to nearly the base. Anneith scanned the kitchen, heart jumping into her throat, but there were no towels in sight. She looked sharply towards the attendant. “Caoimhe!”

But Caoimhe’s eyes were trained on her finger.

“Caoimhe?”

“So powerful,” she breathed. “So powerful, and yet . . . pure. Untouched.” Something had gone cold in the female’s eyes. Darkening by the moment.

Anneith began to back away.

Instantly, the female’s head snapped up. Indeed, this was not Caoimhe. The features were still the same, the same lovely face, but the eyes were no longer a beautiful emerald. They were wholly black, with nothing behind them. No trace of the kind, compassionate attendant.

“Who—” the question caught in her throat. “Who are you?” Anneith croaked. Her feet carried her backwards, until she hit the corner of the kitchen counter. Her hands scrabbled for a grip, a cry loosing itself from her throat when her injured finger hit the granite.

“Who am I?” Mused the female, prowling closer to her. “Who am I?” She repeated, her voice mocking. “Well, _my lady_ ,” the female bared her teeth, and Anneith stifled a scream at the sight of them, jagged, sharp, and predatory. “You’ll know soon enough.”

Anneith screamed as she leapt towards her, the feeling of sharp fangs on her throat. Darkness enveloped her. Fingers slipping from the counter, pain overriding her senses, an endless scream tearing her throat apart . . .

 

~*~

 

“Anneith! Anneith!”

Anneith gasped, eyes flying open. Her fingers grabbed wildly at whatever was in front of her.

“Anneith! Ow, it’s just me. It’s Caoimhe.”

_Caoimhe._

Anneith tightened her grip, using the other hand to grip the edge of her bed. “Caoimhe,” she breathed. No, it couldn’t be. Caoimhe . . . Caoimhe, who wasn’t Caoimhe? Caoimhe, who had tried to kill her—

“Anneith, you were screaming,” another voice sounded from next to her, and her sister’s face came into view, pale and anxious.

“I—I was?”

“Yes.” Finally, the attendant’s face appeared. Emerald eyes.

It certainly didn’t put Anneith more at ease. It made her head spin even more. “What . . . what happened?”

“Nothing happened, Anneith.” Caoimhe wrenched her wrist from her ward’s grip, collapsing on a nearby armchair. “You must have been having a nightmare, or something. Caitriona and I rushed in here, and you were convulsing in your sheets.”

“A nightmare,” she repeated. _Of course, it was just a nightmare._

“Do you know what it was about?” Asked her sister hesitantly, plopping down on the edge of her bed. “You seemed very distraught.”

“I—” It was no use telling them about it. She knew as much as they did—close to nothing. “I can’t really remember it.”

“Huh.” It was clear from their faces that neither female believed her, but Caoimhe made a move to rise.

“You should try and rest more.”

Anneith blinked. Still not used to the sight of . . . not-nightmare Caoimhe. “It’s . . . it’s not already morning?”

“No. You still have a couple of hours until you have to wake up. Which means—” the attendant rose, a sliver of her normal grumpiness creeping back into her voice “—I have a couple more hours until I have to wake. If either of you need anything, don’t call me, because I will be getting some very well-needed rest.”

Caoimhe all but floated out of the bedroom, door clicking shut behind her.

Anneith squinted towards the window. “What time is it?”

“About five. In the morning.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Apparently sound travels faster when rooms are connected by secret underground tunnel.”

Anneith winced at the thought. “Sorry.”

Caitriona gave her a small smile. “That’s alright. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you sure that it was nothing? It didn’t sound like . . . nothing.”

“It was just a bad dream, that’s all.” Just another strange encounter, nothing new. At least, not for her.

“Alright,” replied her sister. “Then I’ll be leaving now.” She leaned over and pecked Anneith on the cheek. “Good . . . second night.”

She rolled her eyes. “Good second night, Caitriona.”

And yet, she couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of nostalgia as her sister slipped underneath the hidden entrance and disappeared.

 

~*~

 

“Count the carrots for me, will you, Anneith?”

Anneith froze. “What?”

Caoimhe raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the basket of orange vegetables. “Count the carrots? For me?”

 _It was just a dream. Just an awful, awful dream_ —

“—Anneith?”

“Yes, of course.”

Hands deftly sorted the carrots, rotten and edible, dumping them out onto the table and counting. Her hands shook as she heard herself count. “Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three . . .”

Caoimhe pushed a strand of hair back from her face as she stirred a large pot of stew. “Thirty-three? Is that what you said?”

Anneith struggled to keep her voice from wobbling. “Yes. Thirty-three.”

“Good. There’s a smaller knife over there, should be good for chopping them up. Can you do that for me?”

Unwillingly, her fingers gripped the edge of the countertop. “Y—yes.”

The knife was just within reach. Very, very close, in fact. She could just reach out—and—and—

“Anneith!” She nearly sobbed with relief—a terrible thought—as her mother’s shrill voice echoed into the kitchen.

“Oh, yes,” muttered Caoimhe under her breath.

Malvolia sailed into the room, dark hair coiffed perfectly back as her sharp eyes scanned over the females. Caoimhe curtsied neatly. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

“Anneith,” she said, ignoring Caoimhe. “What are you doing down here, with the _servants_?”

“I was just—” she gulped. “Helping.”

“Helping?” Malvolia’s eyes narrowed. “With what?”

“C-cooking.”

“Cooking? That task is not suited for you, my dear.” Her mother snatched her hands towards her, running her fingers along Anneith’s palms. “Soon, if you stick with this _rabble—_ ” she heard Caoimhe stifle a snort “—your hands will be too rough! Too calloused! Too boyish, and then who will want you?” Malvolia shook her finger in her face. “I don’t want to see you down here, ever again.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And you!” Malvolia snapped her fingers in front of Caoimhe’s face.

“Yes, my lady?”

The lady of the house stepped closer, until her nose was inches away from Caoimhe’s. “I don’t want to see you ever imposing such ridiculous standards on my family. Sloshing around your filth. Don’t you know who pays you? Who allows you to keep a home here, to be clothed and fed?”

Caoimhe’s eyes glittered dangerously. Anneith saw her mother inhale slowly, as if realizing she had made a mistake. But Caoimhe merely replied, “As you wish, my lady.”

Malvolia, satisfied, stepped back. “Good. Now, Anneith, get dressed.”

“D—dressed?”

“Yes. We’re leaving in a half hour.”

“I’m—apologies, _leaving_?”

“Of course! If we’re to be on time for dinner with Lady Osla and Lord Neils.”

“Lady—?”

Malvolia rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Anneith, don’t you know your own suitor’s parents? We’re to dine with Lord Graehem and his family tonight. Get dressed, put on something that doesn’t make it seem like we roll around in a pigsty, and let us leave already.”

 

~*~

 

Anneith peered out of the carriage window. She felt ridiculous; dressed in the frilliest thing that she owned, hair curled around her shoulders, face caked in makeup. _Thank gods we winnowed._

Part of the way, at least.

She, Malvolia, and Ubel had winnowed further south, appearing at the Abelard Coast, halfway down the island. Anneith had thought—nay, _prayed_ —that they would winnow the rest of the way to the Flatlands. But no. Her parents had specifically paid a driver to meet them at the coast, and from there they made the drive down to Graehem’s residence.

As they passed down a large residential street, Anneith caught a glimpse of a house that closely resembled Edryd’s. _Oh Edryd,_ she thought. _I would give anything for a knight in tarnished armor just about now._

Her mother was making small talk with her father, fanning herself with a small lace fan. “I do hope they have fish. Good tuna is hard to come by.”

“I’m sure they’ll have it. It’s one of the staple foods of the Flatlands.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot.”

Anneith blocked out the mingling sounds of their voices, tired of the same empty banter that she had heard for nineteen years. Did her parents love each other? She pondered as the horses in the front trotted along, the slow clopping of its hooves providing a steady beat. No. No, her parents didn’t love each other. That much was evident.

But there was a difference between loving someone and meeting your equal. Love be damned— Malvolia and Ubel didn’t share a shred of love or affection between the two of them. But the way that their heads moved in sync when they discovered something, the gleam in their eyes when they plotted; that was far scarier than anything love could ever throw.

The soft clop turned into beating on cobblestones, and Anneith pulled herself back to reality. Her stomach sank as she saw what was undoubtedly Graehem’s home—a mansion that was, by the most conservative of estimates, double the size of the Leander. If there was ever a time and place for ostentatious wealth, Graehem’s family had outdone themselves.

The carriage door swung open, and a face ducked inside to see them. “And you two must be Lord Ubel, Lady Malvolia, and the young Lady Anneith?”

The speaker was a youthful-looking male, with a long, thin face. His eyes were sunken, his lips thin and severe. His eyes, however, were bright green as he looked over the inside of the carriage. He was obviously much taller than the vehicle, his back hunched.

Malvolia gave one of her signature giggles. “Yes, yes! And you must be Lord Neils!”

Lord Neils gave a serpentine grin. “That I am.” He offered a hand to Anneith’s mother, one that she clung to as she stepped out of the carriage.

“A pleasure to meet you, Neils, truly,” said Ubel briskly, gravel crunching under his boots as he, too, exited.

Neils refocused his attention on her, and she fought back a shiver at the sight of his eyes, so like his son’s. “Lady Anneith?”

Hesitantly, Anneith accepted his offered hand. It was cold, icy. As if he was dead. She resisted jerking back, instead gripping his fingers and stepping out of the sheltered carriage. _The only haven I’ve had on this trip._

“I look forward to becoming familiar with yourself, Anneith.” Neils gave her an approving nod. “Now, shall we go inside? Osla is so excited to meet you . . .”

She waited until there was a wide berth between herself and the lord before allowing herself to shudder violently.

 

~*~

 

“And so I said to him, ‘how could you have transported it by horse? You had to go through the lake!’”

Ubel let out a roar of laughter, Malvolia a small titter of equal amusement. Lord Neils was frustratingly . . . charismatic. Although that was something that Anneith should have expected. One did not become the island’s foremost magnate in . . . _everything_ , unless they were insanely charming. So far he had told about a thousand and three humorous stories, six thousand seventy-two jokes, and four examples of dry wit.

But focusing on the deceivingly harmless lord of the house was preferable to the male sitting across from her.

She hadn’t made eye contact with Graehem all night, although he had been trying to. Desperately. Every time she surveyed the table, he was there. Every time she listened to one of Neils’s stories, he was there, staring at her. Every time she wiped her mouth, tilting her head up to get all of the crumbs and bits, he. Was. There.

So she adamantly turned away from him to focus on someone else. The remaining figure at the dinner table, seated next to her.

Lady Osla.

She was as fair as her husband and son, with eggshell-colored hair, snow-pale skin, and faded pink lips. But whereas Neils and Graehem wore it with confidence and were undoubtedly handsome, she was . . . faded. The best way to describe Osla, Anneith thought, would be to describe the waning of the moon. So unbearably bright, round and perfect. Then, slowly, slowly. Halving. Quartering. A crescent. Until just a sliver was left, a speck of its once-grand sphere.

That was what looking at Osla felt like.

She had been mostly silent during the dinner, only interrupting to offer a short laugh in response to someone’s words. Her fork had scratched against her plate constantly, screeching near Anneith’s ear.  She hadn’t consumed much of it. Just pushed the meat and potatoes around the fine porcelain until it covered one side.

Was this what they all expected of her? To be a silent presence, to sit pretty and docile at the table. To speak when called upon, to smile politely?

She didn’t need help answering those questions.

The candles in the center of the table were too bright, too hot. They burned through the room, flames climbing higher and higher and higher—

—she coughed. Choked. Clawed at her throat, and—

“Lady Anneith? Are you alright?”

Lord Neils looked over the rim of his wine glass at her.

“I am alright,” she managed to choke out. “I—I just—”

“—oh, sweetheart, why don’t you just have a little more water?” Malvolia’s hard glare betrayed her saccharine tone.

“I—”

“—perhaps you’d like some more dessert?” Graehem offered her a sliver of cake.

“No, I really think that—”

“—some more wine?”

“No, thank you, I—” Anneith croaked. Heat climbed up her neck, cheeks, down to her fingers. Her body screamed at her in protest, muscles straining without call, bones weighed down, sore. It was as if she was bursting into flames—

—as was the table.

Malvolia was the first to cry out, leaping up and screeching. Neils followed soon after, eyes wide as he took in the scene. The table was ablaze. The flames from the candles had—somehow—spilled onto the rest of the table, lighting—well, _everything_ —on fire. She could see the icing on the cake melting second after precious second, the precious porcelain scarred with black.

“Everyone out!” Bellowed Neils. Malvolia gave a shriek and forced herself out of the dining room first, making a beeline for the door. She was followed closely by Ubel and Graehem, whose cunning eyes never faded—and whose fingers were grabbing onto precious artifacts nearby, in an effort to save—what? His wealth? His reputation?

“Lady Anneith, out!” She felt Neils’s hand on her back, gently shoving her out of the dining room. A jolt went through her. “But—Lord Neils! Your wife!”

“She’s right behind us, don’t worry,” he said briskly. “Just get yourself out first.”

Anneith nodded. The mansion was large and intricate—meaning that no matter how fast her mother and father might have hurried, they were most definitely not yet out of the building. She could already feel herself becoming woozy from the smoke. Raising a hand to cover her nose and mouth, she reached a hand through the smoke, attempting to feel her way around the furniture. Her eyes stung from the ash, and she let out a hacking cough.

A whimper sounded to her left.

Despite her pounding heart, she moved blindly towards the sound. Pale blonde hair glowed even through the thick smog, and her eyes squinted. “L—Lady Osla?”

The female was huddled in a corner, eyes bright and afraid. Her eyes darted from side to side, acknowledging Anneith but not seeming to recognize her. Anneith crouched down beside her. “Lady Osla, we have to get out before the fire reaches us.”

Osla’s eyes fixed on something in the distance.

“Please, my lady.” Anneith was begging now, smoke beginning to replace the oxygen in her lungs.

“He was so sweet.”

Anneith stared at the female, unsure of what she had just heard. Had Osla spoken at all? “Excuse me?”

Osla did not respond. The smoke had thickened to a fog now, and she could feel the heat on her skin. Sweat poured down her forehead and down her chest.

Anneith made her decision.

The lady of the house didn’t make a sound as Anneith scooped her up, propping her against her shoulder and running the two of them out of the house. Osla hobbled next to her, as limp as a doll. They crashed into furniture, tables, and armchairs. Anneith heard a crash in the distance as she swept by something cool and hard. Her heart was beating enough for three beings now; pounding beyond anything she had ever experienced.

_Think, Anneith, think!_

Where had the entrance to the house been?

“There.”

Anneith barely stopped to acknowledge Osla’s cough-ridden direction before steering the two of them towards the door. They burst out of the huge double doors, both of them thrown onto the landing. Anneith’s elbow scraped against the rock, and she was sure that part of her dress had torn. Osla merely sat up again, eyes as distant as they had been.

She scanned the group of immortals on the lawn. The few servants that had been in the house, her parents, Graehem, and . . . Lord Neils.

Of course.

She barely had time to breathe before Graehem came running up to her, hands outstretched as if wanting to comfort. “Are you alright, Lady Anneith?”

“I’m fine.”

“But—”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Graehem stepped away, face unreadable as Anneith made her way past him. She walked past her parents (Malvolia’s simpering tones followed her), and past Lord Neils, who had a new kind of stare fixed on her. Very different from the one he had at dinner.

And thank the Mother the carriage was still parked in the front, ready to be sat in. An escape from the madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)


	15. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (Kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Glain (gl-AYY-n)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)  
> Edryd (ed-VER-d)
> 
> GUYS. I UPDATED A CHAPTER IN LESS THAN A MONTH ARE YOU PROUD YET  
> Just kidding. No, but really—I'm actually very excited to update this. It's a little shorter than usual, but I think it says what it needs to say. And special thanks to The Element Encyclopedia of Birthdays by Theresa Cheung for helping me decide when to set Anneith’s birthday!

_Did I do it?_

She woke up with the thought, body falling out of its trance. After making some overly apologetic excuses to Lord Neils, Malvolia, Ubel, and Anneith had quickly winnowed home. Forgoing the carriage, forgoing the pomp and circumstance.

The fire was not an accident, she was sure. Candles didn’t fall over without cause, and certainly not as mystically as it had three weeks ago. If the candles had even fallen over. Rather, it was the flames that Anneith had seen, melting onto the pristine tablecloth. She should have lamented the loss of so many beautiful artifacts and riches in the manor, but—

—something wicked in her reveled in it.

And yet guilt replaced the corrupt eventually. She lay in bed, eyes staring up at the ceiling.

_Did I do it?_

Her heart raced as she considered it. If she had . . . what would she do?

No. She would not lead herself down this line of thinking once more. She was done, with her quest to cure herself, and . . . and other things. They would not be fixed, through her or through a god. She would settle it herself, even if it meant selling her soul to keep quiet.

“Anneith!” Caoimhe’s voice rang down the hallway, and she poked her head into the room. “Get dressed.”

“Why?”

“You have a visitor.”

She frowned. “Who?”

Caoimhe shrugged. “He introduced himself as a lord? Tall, dressed all in black?”

Cold rushed through her, and she needed no more description. “I’ll be there,” she replied, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

Silk on skin, muslin on silk, silver against her neck. Every piece of clothing felt orchestrated—and not by her. Goosebumps rose on her skin as she touched her cold fingers to her arm. Every step away from her bedroom felt like a mistake.

Her traitorous feet carried her downstairs, and her eyes did not disappoint.

Hellas’s eyes locked with hers as she came down the stairs, and she could have sworn that something changed in them. She could not pinpoint the emotion, but it flooded her.

She stopped on the penultimate platform, maintaining an inch on him. Neither of them spoke.

Why was he here? Was it possible that he had . . . felt the fire? If he had, did that mean that he had been stalking her? Or was he just that powerful? What . . . her head spun from all the possibilities, her fingers tightening around that railing.

“Happy birthday.”

_That_ was certainly not what she was expecting to hear. She nearly looked around for a calendar to confirm. But in her heart, something rang true.

May twenty-fifth.

Twenty.

Today she was twenty. Two years older and two years more unmarried than she should have been. She understood why Caitriona had celebrated her own birthday so fiercely. There was an acrid taste to aging, even if you were destined to live for close to half a millennium or more. Growing older meant expectations, rules, plastering a pretty smile on your face to match your pretty dress. Growing older meant worrying, dancing on a tightrope. Praying you didn’t fall. One year older, one year closer to—to everything she didn’t want to voice. To— _everything_.

“Why are you here?” Her voice sounded empty.

“I—” He stopped. “I just needed to see you.”

“Why.” Question forgotten, statement remembered. She felt like an actress playing a part, light-headed and out of her own body. Witnessing herself doing things, saying things, without being present.

“I don’t know.” It was whispered, and Anneith felt every syllable sound in her chest, echoing through the caverns of her body.

“I—I—” Articulation failed her, the words sticking in her throat, hard as any piece of food.

She recalled choking on a chicken bone once at dinner when she had been younger, and her father having to force it out of her. She had been fine, but the sensation of not being able to breathe, tears welling up in her eyes as she panicked—it never left.

“Anneith,” he said, and although he never drew closer, she could feel the warmth radiating off of him. “Anneith,” he repeated, her name rolling to the tip of his tongue and then trapped by its curve, the last syllable escaping through his teeth. Heady and mesmerizing.

“I can’t do this.” Was she crying? Why was she crying? Gods, was she crying? Her insides caved in on themselves, and she resented herself, scorned the heat in her cheeks, the breath in her lungs.

Heat came closer—but never touched. Hellas’s hand remained suspended in midair, fingers outstretched as if to brush away tears. She was suddenly self-aware, more than usual. Overly cognizant of the fact that she was crying in her foyer, that she was in this strange relationship-not-relationship with a god, of all beings. She grabbed at the banister to steady herself. _Clean yourself up._ “I can’t do this. Not anymore.”

Hellas’s hand dropped. “I understand.”

But did he? Oh, those dark eyes, the ones that saw beyond her soul . . . did he, though? Her heart dropped into her stomach for the hundredth time that week, as she confronted . . . what? Her mind was splintering, words rising in her throat before being mechanically forced down.

“I—I just wanted to bring you a present.”

“Hellas, you don’t—”

“—no. I had to. For the . . . the last time we saw each other.”

The last time they had seen each other. It was not something she would forget soon. The sight of Hellas, bloody red scarlet on the cushions, face pale with a sweat sheen. Different from the healthy god standing in front of her, face turned upward towards hers, with a very different expression on his face. He held out a small rectangular package. “For you.”

It was solid in her hands, and she knew enough to figure out what it was. He knew it, too. “It’s . . . something small. From the library.”

That explained the magic emanating from it, strong enough to make her fingers shake. “I can’t. It’s not . . . it’s not my place.”

He gave her a half-smile. “But it is. I can think of no better person to keep a novel such as that one.”

“I—thank—thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

They stood in silence, Anneith swaying somewhat. “I’ll . . . I’ll just go put this away,” she said, a little unsure.

Her foot slipped on the step above the moment she tried to move.

She barely had time to cry out before she felt warmth supporting her, a solid presence catching her. Hellas’s arms came around her, tucking her into his chest. “Anneith.”

“I’m fine. I’m . . . I’m fine . . .” It was back, that fatigue that had crippled her for months now.

“No, you’re not,” he said firmly. “Anneith, please, you don’t look well—please—let me take you to see someone. A healer.”

“You mean Silba,” she grumbled. “I’m fine.” Anneith swiped at her eyes, squeezing the tears out of them.

“No, you’re not.”

“Are we really going to do this?” She tilted her head, surprised at how suddenly fearless she felt. “I say one thing, you disagree, and this drags on for eternity?”

Hellas held firm. “I have millennia to waste. Drag this on as long as you like, Lady Anneith. What is one argument but a petal on a flower that has a thousand?”

She folded her arms. “I’m not going.”

“If you don’t go, you will only become worse.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Anneith,” he said quietly. “You . . . you reek of sickness.”

“I’m sorry, I _reek?"_

“It wasn’t the word I was looking for.”

She scoffed and turned away, making sure to grip the banister as she made her way upstairs. She was done, so extremely at the end of this “story” with Hellas. Sickness, sickness, sickness. As if she didn’t know that already? That she was a plague on her own house?

“I beg you.”

One step after the other, she was almost to the top—

“I can’t watch you go on like this.”

Halt.

“I can’t watch you waste away,” he said, and she could hear the snarl in his voice. Caught halfway between desperation and anger. “Watch you suffocate yourself in this insufferable house, in this insufferable existence. Do you know what is out there? Waiting for you? More, much more than your mother and father and this house and suitors. There is a world out there, even if you think that you are limited to this one tiny island, even if you think that you are chained to your family wherever you go.” His voice became dangerously quiet. “You are a fool if you think that, and you are no fool, Anneith.”

“You have no right,” she hissed, feet steadying themselves as she spun around. “You have no right, to come into my home and insult me, to _assume_ that I want _any_ part of this life. Do you think I want to be here? Do you think any of us want to be here? No! But do you know why I am here, why I have to remain here? It’s because I am no god, I am no goddess, I am an immortal, I am a female, I am required to pay a price for my existence, a debt that is collected upon beyond its dues. This house is my haven and my hell, all at once, and you have no right, no _fucking_ right, to tell me what I should do, what I should think and feel.”

His breath was warm on her face. Her feet had carried her all the way to the base of the stairs, mere inches away from Hellas.

But her anger dissipated as she stared into those dark eyes (or was it him that stared into her eyes?).

She was so, so, tired.

“Please leave.” It wasn’t so much a command as it should have been. Her staggering breathing betrayed it for what it really was: defeat.

“Anneith—” he began.

“—please.”

Something in her voice must have broken him too, because his face fell. As far down as the underworld he called home.

Warmth escaped her, and all traces of it left with the male walking out.

 

~*~

 

She couldn’t rise out of bed.

Something held her down, something tied her to the sheets. She woke up, head laid squarely on her pillow, view tilted upwards. As if she had been laid to rest in a coffin. Heaviness had overtaken her, and she had frozen for gods knew how long before even attempting to move.

She felt . . . drained. Utterly depleted of some essential component. Her mind felt muddled and blank, and there was truly no other word to describe it than—

Empty.

She barely registered Caoimhe coming into the room, asking after her: did she want breakfast, was she sick, was she tired, perhaps if you keep sleeping and then eat when you wake up later? She couldn’t even remember if she had replied, with a grunt or otherwise. She barely registered Caitriona coming in, voice concerned but wary, as if cautious to keep her distance. All of it faded into one large blob of nothingness, feelings that drifted away into the void of her mind.

Sleep claimed her once more later on, but the final thought that led her into the darkness:

_Hellas._

No. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t the cause of this, certainly not. If he had been, then she would have . . . done this much sooner. No. This felt like something that was a long time coming. She was sure of that much.

 

~*~

 

“Which one?”

She rubbed at her eyes, and hoped that Caitirona couldn’t see the ache in them, or the tremor in her fingers. “What?”

Her sister, seated cross-legged on her bed, held up two gowns. “Blue or violet?” Both were exquisite, and would surely look beautiful on the young lady no matter what.

Anneith pretended to ponder the question. “Violet.”

No matter how she was, she would always try. For Caitriona.

“Violet it is, then.” Her sister tossed the other dress on a nearby chair and began stripping. “Are you nervous?”

Anneith twisted a bangle on her wrist. She was already dressed for the ball that night, in a rather revealing ivory ball gown. There was no real neckline, just delicate beading and tiny flowers that created a leafy, jagged edge in a vee down the center of her chest. Jewels dotted the skirt, all the way down to her ankles. Her back was closed by a column of tulle-covered buttons, the varying textures making the gown impossible to avoid detection. “Should I be?”

Caitriona stepped into the violet dress, pulling it up from its puddle of silk. She shrugged. “I don’t know. Inviting all of your suitors, though?” She grunted as the seam cinching the bodice to the skirt squeezed up her thighs. “It seems over-the-top.”

Over-the-top indeed. Ubel and Malvolia had seen it fit to invite Edryd, Graehem, Jaimes, Huxley, and Deacon, despite her having only sat down with Edryd, Huxley, and Graehem. Which meant that either the remaining two were a status symbol for their party, or that they wanted Anneith to become more familiar with them. Either way, it was a raw deal.

Anneith rubbed her temples, slumping in her armchair. “I try my best not to think about it.”

“Mmmh. Can you lace me up, please?”

Caitriona straightened her back a little as her older sister ran her thin fingers along the laces. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

Although she couldn’t see it, Anneith raised an eyebrow. “When did you become so optimistic?”

“Father’s got a cold. Mother’s hair won’t curl properly.” Caitriona turned around, mischief glinting in her eyes. “What’s not to like?”

 

~*~

 

Anneith rested her arm on a nearby pillar to stop herself from tipping over.

No, she wasn’t drunk (although she wished she was). Malvolia had seen to that, made evident to her when all of the waiters that approached her seemed to just “be out of champagne.”

Fine.

Just fine.

Some young lord had already swept Caitriona away to gods-knew-where, Malvolia and Ubel were doing their best to charm up some poor lost old lady, and Anneith was actively avoiding all of her suitors. Edryd had apparently not shown up, a fact that had her swirling her water (yes, water in a champagne flute, fuck you Malvolia), staring morosely down at it like an alcoholic (waterholic?).

“Anneith!”

Her head snapped up. No, surely it wasn’t.

But as dark curls and satin skin collided with her, she had to keep herself from crying out in relief. “A—Aislin?”

Her friend drew back, beaming. “Surprise!”

She inhaled, trying to fight back tears. Gods, if her friend knew what had happened since she had left. “Aislin, I—how—? I thought you were in the middle of classes?”

“I’m on holiday. Mother thought that we should all attend tonight. To support you.”

“Aislin.” She wasn’t sure what to say. Glain and Aislin, perhaps the only two utterly good people on this side of the Island.

“Now, come,” Aislin laughed, looping her arm through Anneith’s. “I have . . . I have news for you.”

“News?” Anneith asked, mood now so buoyant that even her faux-champagne seemed real. “What kind?”

Aislin looked down at her shoes (very glittery, very gold, very Aislin). “Just . . . I don’t know.”

“Aislin, is everything alright?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, it’s fantastic. Everything’s fantastic. I just . . .” she laughed nervously. “I don’t know how to say this . . .”

“You know I’ve never judged you for anything. Is it a baby? Because I will take care of it, if you need—”

“—no! Gods, no, it’s not a baby. Anneith, I—” Anneith saw her expression change. Cheeks reddened, lips curved up. “I’ve met the most wonderful male.”

“Really?” Anneith grinned, nudging her in the side with her elbow.

Aislin giggled. “Ah! Stop!”

“Is he tall? Dark? Handsome?”

“Yes, no, and beyond belief.”

“Must be quite a catch. Do I know him?”

Aislin looked down at her shoes.

“My Goddess. It’s Edryd, isn’t it?”

“What? Gods, no! I mean, he’s a perfectly good male, but—” Aislin lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I don’t think I could live amongst those cabbages.”

Anneith laughed. “Well, then? That still doesn’t answer my question. “Do I know him?”

“It’s—” Aislin took a deep breath. “It’s . . . Aengus.”

She blinked. “Aengus? As in . . . redhead Aengus?”

“Yes.” Aislin was babbling now. “I just—I was so lonely in the Flatlands, and Edryd would come see me, but he was up here so often too, so I didn’t really see him all that frequently after all, and I couldn’t very well stay at school all the time—male students are elitist and disgusting, by the way—and so I had to go into town—and did you know how nice the boutiques in the Flatlands are? So sweet and quaint and lovely, kind of like the Cliffs but much less snooty, but anyway—so I bumped into Aengus on one of my trips, because you see, I worked my way into being lost—I’m such a ditz, right?—and he just happened to find me, and it was so nice—of course, it turned out that he also had no idea how to get back to my home, but it was so nice regardless and we began to exchange letter and meet up, and gods, he’s just so wonderful and sweet and lovely and I just—” she seemed to begin to realize that Anneith was only able to catch about half of what she was saying. “It was so nice.”

“Do you love him?” She wasn’t sure what possessed her to ask that question, to let the word— _the_ word—fall so casually from her lips.

She hoped that Aislin didn’t hear the longing in her voice.

Aislin’s voice was strong, unlike her babbling. “Yes.”

Something, some string snapped inside her, and she felt a little like the bakers she sometimes saw in town—picking up their loaves, tapping to bottom to hear the hollowness of the bread.

Except she was the bread.

“I’m happy for you.” There was only truth in those words, only sincerity. “Honestly, Ais, I’m thrilled.”

Her friend’s face seemed to relax, and she beamed. “Thank you.”

“I’m just glad I can keep an eye on him. You know, drop by occasionally, make sure he’s not up to anything—”

“—Anneith!” Aislin said, but she was laughing. “Gods, you’re worse than my father.”

The loud clinking of metal on glass interrupted her. “If I could have your attention, please!”

Her heart sped up. As if to say _get out of there get out right now_ but she schooled her face into a neutral expression. And made her way to the center of the room, Aislin still beside her.

Mavolia and Ubel stood together, her mother’s face flushed under the candles. Her father looked as neutral as always.

“Tonight,” Malvolia began. “Is an exciting night. Not only do we have the honor of hosting some of the finest immortals from all over the island, but we also have the opportunity to share some exciting news with all of our esteemed guests. Tonight,” she said, beaming. “We have the great satisfaction of announcing the engagement of Anneith, our eldest daughter, to Graehem, the only son of the fantastic Lord Neils!”

_Gods._

She felt Aislin’s grip on her arm tighten.

But it was as if she felt nothing. She couldn’t muster up any surprise or hatred or anger. It just . . . was. It just was, and her name was just there. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

As the crowd parted, finally noticing that the lady was in their midst, Anneith gently distangled herself from Aislin. Concern—and the anger that she should have felt—shone in those dark eyes. But Anneith gave a shake of her head, warning her.

“Lady Anneith?”

She didn’t even stop to notice who it was. There was only one possibility.

Looking up at her fiancé, she took his offered arm. “Lord Graehem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) (just updated my Tumblr masterlist with a bunch of new pieces, especially opinions on ACOAFS) and [here](https://www.dresstells.com/ball-gown-lace-deep-v-neck-long-sleeves-court-train-appliques-beading-wedding-dress.html) is Anneith's ballgown, in case you were curious.


	16. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Caitriona (kuh-TREE-nah)  
> Caoimhe (KEE-va)  
> Graehem (gray-hem)  
> Neils (kneels)  
> Osla (oss-LAH)  
> Glain (gl-AYY-n)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)  
> Edryd (ed-VER-d)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)
> 
> Still a little on the short side, but I think I've largely abandoned the notion of making my chapter all equally long. After all, not all plotlines are created even . . .

She was desperately hoping no one would notice her.

Leaning against the wall, she exhaled sharply. Wedding—gods, the fact that she even had to say that word—planning had started almost immediately. Wedding dress fittings, fabric samples, color scheme setups . . .

She detested it all.

But worst of all, she hated that the one person who should have been there had to hear it from someone else.

“This is bullshit.”

Anneith had winced at the anger in Edryd’s tone. “I know.”

He had run an aggravated hand through his hair, leaving his tea untouched. “I wasn’t even invited. I didn’t even know about everything.”

“I’m sorry.”

He had waved a hand, as if to say, _you don’t have to be sorry._

“I thought we would get married.”

Her head had snapped up, brown eyes darting back and forth, searching for some unspoken message in Edryd’s. All she had found was regret.

She had let herself daydream for a moment. She and Edryd, standing in Lumas’s temple. Smiling bashfully at one another, ignoring the satisfied smirks of their parents. She and Edryd, sitting on their back porch in the sunlight, watching their child run around in the grass. She and Edryd, reading books together in the sitting room. She and Edryd . . .

It was nowhere near the life she had once imagined herself, free of the Island’s social hierarchy. But it was beyond what she could have ever hoped for herself at the present.

“I know,” she had said softly. “I . . . I wish the circumstances were different.”

“Let me know,” he had said suddenly.

Anneith had blinked, although she already had an inkling of what he was about to say. “Let you know what?”

“If he’s mistreating you.”

“Edryd—”

“—no,” he had said firmly. “I know Graehem. I know his family. I know what they’re capable of. If he lays a hand on you—”

“—Edryd, please, that won’t happen.”

“Yes, it will.” He had leaned back and said darkly, “You don’t know who you’re marrying, Anneith.”

She would have fought back, if not for the troubled look on Edryd’s face and her own fear. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve met the Lady Osla?”

She had nodded.

“She didn’t always used to be . . . like that.” He had traced the swirls on his teacup absentmindedly. “I grew up with Graehem. Had dinner with his family at least once a month. When I was younger, Osla was lively. Vibrant. And if her husband or someone happened to say something she didn’t like, she would fight with them. She was unafraid of just about anything.” He had paused. “But one autumn—abruptly—they stopped inviting us over. Claimed that Osla was gravely ill and that they needed time for themselves. At school, Graehem behaved the same way he had always behaved. But no one knew what was going on at home. All we knew was that when Lord Neils opened up his manor for social events again, Osla was quiet.”

Chills had run up her arms. “And—and no one knows what happened?”

“Whispers got out. From the servants. They say that Neils locked her inside. Forced her to stay, and listen to him wear her down. Telling her she was a failure here and there, that she was worthless. Some say that even Graehem contributed. Eventually, Osla lost herself.

“Neils may look harmless, but . . . I wouldn’t doubt the possibility that he would have been perfectly fine if Osla had died in the fire from a couple weeks ago.”

Anneith had shuddered at the mention of the fire. And now, Osla. What had happened to her? Was that what she had been babbling about during their escape, how “he” was sweet? Her husband? Or perhaps her son?

“I don’t have a choice.” She had accepted it. No matter how much Caoimhe and Aislin and Caitriona had raged at it, no matter how much her heart burned when she saw young couples in town.

“Anneith!”

Air rushed into her lungs, the memory ending, a panicked reflex as her mother came into view. She was beaming. “Oh, there you are. There are some beautiful cake samples in the dining room for you to taste. Absolutely divine.” She took Anneith’s arm, marching her—not ungently—away. Malvolia’s mood had been buoyant since the engagement, far happier and far kinder to Anneith than she had ever been in the past twenty years combined.

“Is that so?” She asked weakly, mind already spinning at the thought of tasting even more food.

Her mother tutted. “Come on now, you don’t want your wedding to be dull. And there’s still so much to do! We have to choose a venue for the reception, decorate, make and send invitations . . .”

She stopped listening.

 

~*~

 

Aislin ran a hand through her dark curls. “Are you sure?”

Anneith blinked slowly, the silhouette of her friend blurry even in the sunlight. “I’m sure.”

“Anneith, this seems too quick.” She frowned. “And you’re sick.”

“I’m not sick. There’s just . . . a lot of dust right now.” She coughed weakly.

The lady scowled. “Anneith, you’re sick.”

She was probably right. Anneith’s head pounded, and even tucked underneath her blankets, she was shivering. Caoimhe had already come by with food—a feast, to be precise. A tray loaded with cawl, rarebit, small mince pies, and even a slice of apple crumble.

The pity was overwhelming.

Still, the tray was left largely untouched, on her bedside table. Her stomach had protested vehemently at the sight, and she was in no shape to disagree. Anneith waved an arm at her friend. “Go, Aislin. Classes are restarting soon, and no doubt you’ll want to spend time with Aengus before you have to go back.”

A soft pink sheen spread across Aislin’s cheeks at the mention of Aengus. “Stop,” she whined, slumping in her armchair. “Honestly, when will you learn to take better care of yourself? I feel like you’ve been sick for the past year.”

 _Me too,_ she thought.

“Aislin, just go,” she groaned, picking up a pillow and throwing it weakly at her friend. She caught it easily in one hand. “I’ll be fine. I _am_ fine. And you’re due back at school tomorrow.”

Aislin rubbed her temple. “I don’t want to leave you. Especially not now.”

“Aislin.”

“Fine, fine! You look like you could use some sleep anyway.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

Aislin ignored the jab. “You know my mother? She’s right next door. Always. If you need anything. Father’s been away on business frequently, so she’s a tad lonely as well. Maybe you two could accompany each other. Go to the market, talk . . . I don’t know. Just a thought.”

She considered the idea. Her talk with Lady Glain—had it really been two months ago?—had been comforting. She had felt like the mother Malvolia had never been (until now). “Alright,” she sighed. “I’ll . . . think about it.”

That seemed to be a good enough answer for Aislin. She began to gather her skirts and stand up. “You’ll write me if there’s anything wrong? If you need someone to talk to?”

Anneith rolled her eyes, although there was a lump forming in her chest as she did so. “Yes, Mother.”

Aislin leaned over and touched her soft lips to Anneith’s forehead in a sweet kiss. “I love you.”

She closed her eyes. “I love you too.” Anneith could feel the cold sweep of air that froze her forehead as Aislin pulled away.

She paused at the threshold of Anneith’s bedroom. Slowly, she watched her turn around, hand on the door until just a sliver of Aislin’s lovely face was visible.

“Good luck, my dear,” she whispered.

 

~*~

 

“I just don’t know what to do.”

She was pacing furiously in front of Lady Glain, who sat in a floral armchair sipping tea. Anneith ran a hand through her hair (and immediately regretted it as her fingers stuck in the intricate braids). “I just . . .” she looked helplessly towards the lady. “Don’t know what to do.”

She had been uttering the same sentiment in different words for the better part of an hour.

“Sit down, dear,” the lady said softly, patting the armchair next to her. Anneith acquiesced, slumping a little against the cushions. Glain passed a cup of warm tea to her.

“You truly know nothing about Lord Graehem? I find that very hard to believe,” she said, winking.

Anneith shifted, a little bashfully. “Well . . . only what I’ve heard, really.”

“Ah, well, that can’t be helped. His father is quite . . . the talk of the town.”

“Right now?”

“Always.” She stirred cream into her own cup. “He’s a bit older than the rest of us. Married a little late, but that never hurt the males. Even in my day it was fashionable for young males to be called something akin to ‘just like Neils!’ or ‘well, the way you’re going, you’re going to end up as rich as Neils!’” At Anneith’s confused expression, she chuckled. “I never said they were good sayings.”

She shifted in her seat. “I don’t know . . . I just—”

“—don’t know,” the lady finished. “And that’s alright. I didn’t know what I was doing until well after I married my husband and I had Aislin. Many females don’t find themselves until well into their second century.”

_“Second century?”_

“I think what a lot of females—and males, really—don’t understand is that immortals live for centuries. A good portion live for more than a millenium. And yet, so many beings want to rush into their lives, into marriages and children, as if we are mere humans. That’s where all this ridiculous pressure comes from. Some immortal long ago must have broken some sort of status quo and set the precedent. You can’t completely fault your mother for her thinking; it’s all she was brought up on.” Glain paused to set her teacup down. “Here’s what you do.”

Anneith leaned closer.

“Live.” Glain smiled softly. “Live, Anneith. Husbands and children will only do so much. Let yourself breathe. Take advantage of yourself, even if it feels as if you are trapped.”

“But what if I am?” Flashes of her life with Graehem shuttered over her eyes, dark and helpless.

Glain was quiet for a moment before she answered.

“Then you fight.”

 

~*~

 

“I simply don’t believe that the young Lady Caitriona has the temperment to handle such an honor.”

Anneith resisted snapping at the lord. After the engagement, Neils had been more than eager to jump into wedding planning—in _all_ ways possible. And the more that Anneith spent time with him, the more she saw through his humor. The more she got at his true nature.

Even Malvolia frowned at his tone. “Lord Neils, with all due respect, Caitriona is my daughter. I would expect no less of her.”

“Yes, but . . . well, I hate to be the one to break this to you,” said Neils, in a tone that made it clear that he was very not sorry. “But there have been rumors. Swirling around town. About your daughter’s . . . escapades.”

Anneith’s blood flamed.

“Rumors?”

“That your daughter has been . . . well, drinking. And sleeping around, for lack of a better phrase.”

Knuckles turned white as she clenched the edge of her armrest. How dare he, how—

“Lord Neils,” replied Malvolia, and even though she had expected it, Anneith was surprised to hear grit in her mother’s tone. “This is my daughter we are discussing. She is not your daughter—”

“—well, with the wedd—”

“—they are not married yet. And even then Caitriona remains the responsibility of myself and Lord Ubel. You need not concern yourself with such superficial matters.” Malvolia waved again, anger dissipating from her expression. Bored once again. “Caitriona will be the primary attendant.”

Neils’ eyes flashed, and he opened his mouth to protest. But all that came out was a dull, “as you wish, Lady Malvolia.” He straightened, buttoning his overcoat and standing up. “I’d best be getting back to my inn, I have a business meeting early tomorrow morning.”

“Safe travels,” said Malvolia, tone cloying. As soon as Neils walked out of sight, her smile turned into a harsh scowl. “Drinking and sleeping, my ass. As if his own son doesn’t get up to the same things. Males are such vile things.”

She knew her mother. Or, at least she thought she did. What was it Glain had said? _“_ _As much as your mother would like you to be everything she wasn’t, or everything that your peers want to be—take everything with a grain of salt.”_ Malvolia was the female who had neglected her as a child, who had slapped and belittled her. But she was also a female who understood the way in which their little island ran, who noticed the barbs in Neils’ statement.

Anneith sank back into her chair, mutely watching her mother rifle through seating charts for the fiftieth time that afternoon. _If only the world were less complicated._

“Lady Anneith?” A familiar rap at the door alerted both females to Caoimhe, who had poked her head in.

“Yes?” Queried Malvolia, eyes narrowing at the attendant. It seemed she hadn’t forgotten their close relationship. Unfortunately.

“The Lord Graehem is here to see Lady Anneith.”

She mentally thanked Caoimhe for not calling him “her betrothed.”

“I’ll go,” she said, picking herself up.

“Don’t stay out too late,” called her mother. “We have flower samples to look at.”

Caoimhe ushered her out, hand tight on her elbow.

“Where is he?”

“At the gate.”

The gate. That was a walk. Further than the door, at least. Which meant that Anneith had just enough time to formulate sample small talk and just enough time to worry about what would happen. Perfect.

“I don’t like him.”

She turned towards Caoimhe. She could see the fury in her eyes. “Caoimhe—”

“—no!” Anneith flinched at her outburst. “No, no, no! No!” The attendant grabbed both of her shoulders. “Listen to me. Listen to me. You are much, much more than him. You deserve much, much more of him. That boy—that _male_ —is nothing more than a black heart ensconced by a pretty body. He—he—” she was too angry to finish.

Anneith gently unclenched her fingers from her arms. “Please, Caoimhe.” She offered her a small smile, none of which did anything to mollify her. “Let it go.”

She shook her head. “Let it go? Let it go? How can I? Anneith,” she said gently. “Once . . . once upon a time you would have fought.” She shook her head. “What changed?”

 _If only you knew,_ she thought. But she opened her mouth. _If only you knew._

“I changed.”

 

~*~

 

“Well, now that we’re officially set to be married,” said Graehem, plucking a grape out of the picnic basket. “Shall we discuss expectations?”

They were perched upon a small knoll overlooking Grainne Square. Graehem had brought a small wicker basket filled with fruit, cheese, and crackers, gesturing for Anneith to sit beside him. She had swallowed down the implications for the future and obeyed. Forcing a smile, she replied, “As you wish.”

“Of course, I anticipate that I will be away quite frequently,” her fiancé mused. “I have business to attend to around the island. But that shouldn’t be a problem for you, after all. You’ll just stay at home.”

She dipped her head, staring down at her lap. “No, it shouldn’t be an issue,” she echoed.

Graehem gave a serpentine smile. “Magnificent.” He looked towards the horizon. “It’s getting rather late. We should be going.”

“Yes, absolutely.” _Thank the gods this will be over soon_.

“Of course, there _is_ one matter we should talk about sooner than later.”

She resisted flinching as his fingers came up under her chin, tilting it up. Forcing her to meet his eyes.

“The matter of progeny.”

 _Progeny._ The way he said it—it didn’t even sound humane. _Progeny._ Progeny were not children, or immortals, or living, breathing beings—they were _things_. Things, just like her and Caitriona. Means to an end. Obligations, status symbols, and everything else in between. “Actually,” she swallowed. “I was thinking that . . . we would wait a little. Before—before it all.”

Graehem arched an eyebrow. His frown cast a shadow over his face. “Wait?”

“I—yes.”

“Anneith,” he said, resting a hand on her lower arm. “You are . . . well, to put it candidly, quite old for an unwed female. For you to be childless as well . . . it’s rather sacrilegious, don’t you think?” The harsh gleam in his eyes belied his friendly tone.

“I—” She had known. That she wouldn’t be able to escape this, not at all. She resisted touching a hand to her womb.

Would there be a child there? Someday? Would it grow up happy? Or would it be like her?

Lost and unwilling and lonely and everything in between?

“Of course, my lord.”

 

~*~

 

She felt it before it happened.

One minute she was sitting on her bed, a book propped up in her lap. Eyes sore from the dim light, head hurting from everything else.

The next minute, she was on the floor. Thrown there by a sudden jolt in the earth. Blearily, she picked her head up. Screams pierced the air not long after, a cacophony of fear both inside the Leander and out.

But she could have sworn . . .

She could have sworn . . .

She could have sworn that something in her mind had screeched to a halt the moment before she had hit the floor, a visceral response that left her aware. Of what, she had no idea. And, as she scrambled to her feet, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.

Yanking her door open, she looked out into the hallway. There was no one there.

 _Strange_ , she thought. _There’s wind._ Her eyes refocused.

The scream that came out of her mouth sounded alien even to her.

The end of the Leander was gone. It simply was . . . gone. A chunk of it had been torn away by the same strange force, inundating the house with the cold wind. But it wasn’t the aesthetics that Anneith was after.

It was her sister.

Her feet were rubbed raw on the carpeting as she sprinted down the hall. “Caitriona!” She screamed. “Caitriona!”

No reply.

“Caitriona!” Her voice raw from sorrow, eyes blurred with panic and tears, she nearly fell off what was left of the platform. Her hand shot out, an instinctual movement, latching onto a splinter of the wall. Leaning off of the floor, vertigo shot through her entire system as the ground came rushing up towards her. Below her—stories and feet and meters and miles, miles, _miles_ —debris from the Leander lay in a pile, like kindling for a funeral pyre. Blindly, she whipped around again, to stare at what was left.

None of Caitriona’s bedroom.

All of it lay below her. Down, down, down on the ground.

A sob edged itself out of her throat before she touched a hand desperately to the wall, feeling for any sort of life. Any sort of remnant of her sister, that lovely, vibrant soul that had dreamt, lived, wanted so much more than the stars had allowed. Said “fuck it” to her fate and lived, lived, _lived_ —

“Please,” she whimpered. Oaths and bargains and pleas swirled through her mind, to the gods, to, fuck, _anyone_. She would do anything, _gods, please_ —

She hadn’t realized she was speaking out loud until tears clogged her nose and mouth, and she coughed. Her fingers had gone cold against the wall, and she slid down, back against it. A scream loosed itself, her vocal cords sore beyond belief but allowing her. Great, huge, ugly lumps formed in her throat, tears and snot flooding her face. Her fingers, curled into fists, pounded against the floor. Gods, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair—

“Anneith!” A sharp voice sounded from above her. Her eyes barely had the strength to open to reveal her father standing before her. “Get up,” he ordered, although his voice was undercut by—fear. Undiluted fear.

She didn’t have a choice before she was yanked up, Ubel’s arms clenching hers tightly. They flew down the staircases, towards the main hall.

Her father made no comment about his younger daughter.

Anneith’s red raw eyes could barely make out the mangled features of the Leander. Once so beautiful, so lovely—and now in ruins. The entire side of the house had been torn off, crumbling in chunks on the dirt below. The grand stairs suffered nearly as badly, the banisters disintegrating at the lightest of touches. Her bare feet slipped on the cold marble, but Ubel paid no attention. Merely jerked her upright again and moved on.

Malvolia stood in the foyer, eyes darting around. A thick fur coat was wrapped around her shoulders, too hot even for the breezy spring air. In her arms she clutched a box of jewelry, and what looked like a gold tea set. Her mewl of protest as Ubel yanked a teapot out of her hands was quickly smothered.

“Malvolia, you don’t need this shit,” he snarled. The teapot was slammed down on a nearby table with neither pomp nor circumstance.

“But—our fortune,” she whispered, eyes wide.

Ubel gave a harsh laugh. “You think our fortune is contained by these four walls? This piece of shit house?” He turned away. “You are more of a moron than I thought.”

Her mother shrank away.

“We leave at once.”

“Father—” she croaked, her throat scratchy from crying. “Caitriona—”

It was the first and last time she would see true anguish cross her father’s face.

“Caitriona is gone,” he said, simply. As if noting the death of an ant. “It will do you no good to linger on it.”

“And—and the—servants?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “In case you haven’t noticed, child, half of this house is in shambles. It would be a gods-damned miracle if anyone survived.”

_Caoimhe._

Her fingers clenched the skirt of her gown, compensating for her tears. Her mother, her _true_ mother. The one who had bathed her as a child, who had braided her hair, who had let her slather food on her face, who had taken the fall when she had broken a vase once—

—gone, gone, gone, gone, _gonegonegonegone_

Malvolia’s cold fingers came to rest on her arm as she heaped a similar winter coat onto her shoulders. Her mother’s face was pale as Anneith turned to look at her.

“Let’s go,” her father commanded, already one foot out the door.

They fled, not daring to look back.

The wind blowing back into her eyes, making her tears sting like acid.

The moonlight appearing behind the clouds, making her mother’s dark hair shine.

The whisper of tree branches as they swayed, heightening the sound of her father’s breath.

It would be days later, in a camp in the middle of the Plains of Astrea, that she would learn what had transpired on the Island that fateful night. From whispers around a fire, hushed sounds and stories from immortals with sunken eyes and trembling fear.

_The Valg._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	17. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Nadya (nah-dee-YAH)
> 
> . . . and we back!

Anneith watched the sky with wary eyes and flinched when a loud crack split the silence.

She drew the blanket tighter around her shaking body, grip barely strong enough to do so. She was sitting outside her family’s tent, the only one in the camp who had chosen to. Everyone else, including her parents, were inside. Hiding.

Not her.

Anneith squeezed her eyes shut as another loud boom threatened the safety of their little setup.

The Valg had landed at two points on the island: the Bay of Mare and the easternmost tip of the Flatlands. Those who had seized the Bay had made their way east, down the coast. They had been met by what few soldiers had been alerted, an event that Anneith hadn’t even heard about until now.

The soldiers had been slaughtered within moments, and the Valg continued. Up the coast once more, directly to the unguarded Cliffs of Iseult.

Anneith choked back a sob as she remembered the way her house had jolted, as if it was a toddler being pushed down onto the floor. The way the wall had just been _gone_ , the way that Ca—

—no. Neither of their names would be spoken, especially not in this cursed place.

They had fled, like the other surviving immortals who had received word, to the Plains of Astrea.

“We’ll find Macha,” Malvolia had whispered to herself, over and over again as they winnowed, distance by distance. “We’ll find Macha.”

But by the time they had reached her aunt’s manor, it too was in shambles.

Ubel had turned away quickly, either out of expectation or out of desire to avoid the truth. Malvolia had collapsed to the ground. Anneith had accepted it with quiet hopelessness.

So they had trudged their way north, almost to the coast, coming up on a refugee camp.

It sickened her to recognize so many of the faces there. Old immortals, ones that had dined with them at balls, or the spoilt children of socialites. She recognized none of the weathered faces of those who had worked under the rich. And as she passed by a female remarking, “What atrocious conditions this field is in!” she had given up trying to look.

“Do you want some soup?”

She turned slowly to her left, where a little girl held out a small bowl of broth, large blue eyes looking up at her. Anneith must have looked a sight, huddled in the cold, own eyes wild.

“Did you eat yet?” Anneith asked.

The girl nodded, hands shaking.

“Thank you.”

The bowl warmed her fingers, and to her surprise, the girl didn’t leave. Just stood there and watched.

“Do you want to sit?” Anneith surveyed the way her eyes darted not to her face, but to the gray blanket covering her shoulders. “Are you cold?”

“A little.”

“Here, you can have this blanket.” Stifling a shiver, she held out the woolen fabric to her.

The girl shied away. “You’re cold, too.”

“I’m alright.”

“Some families only have one blanket to share.”

“Well, my family isn’t one of them.” Anneith tilted her head. “Is your family one of them?”

Slowly, reluctantly, the girl nodded. There was something about war that made children honest.

“Then here,” insisted Anneith, blanket still held aloft. “You gave me soup, now you can have the blanket.”

“I just want to sit next to you.”

“Oh. Well,” Anneith shrugged. “We’ll share the blanket then, yes?”

“Alright.” The girl pressed into Anneith’s side, and she breathed in their combined warmth. Struggling as to not jostle her too much, Anneith angled the spoon into her mouth. The soup had gone cold, but the salty, hearty taste of it was enough.

“You’re pretty.”

Anneith looked at the little girl. She could feel her lips twitching, the first shadow of a smile since—

“Thank you. I think you’re very pretty too. What’s your name?”

“Nadya.”

“I’m Anneith.”

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

Silence ate up their conversation, and for a moment they just surveyed the darkening sky in peace. Then: “Do you know what happened?”

Anneith nearly closed her eyes at that question, answers painted on the back of her eyelids in blood and dust. Gods, this girl couldn’t be more than ten years old. Ten years old, and stuffed into a camp like this. “Not quite,” she admitted.

“You’re lying.”

Her eyes narrowed in surprise. Nadya’s cerulean eyes didn’t diminish. “That’s what all the adults say,” she replied, tone loudening. “That they don’t know.” One of her legs came out from under the blanket and kicked a pebble across the grass. “But they all know. I hear them whisper. About monsters and myths and things that shouldn’t exist.”

“So you came to squeeze information out of me,” noted Anneith dryly.

Nadya blushed, but her glare didn’t diminish.

“Alright Nadya,” she set down her now-empty bowl. “Here’s all I know. You know who the Valg are?” She nearly choked on their name, anathema as it was.

The girl nodded.

“They landed on the island three weeks ago. One section on the coast of the Flatlands, and the other at the Bay of Maeve. Our people tried to fight them off. They couldn’t.”

Nadya was silent, and Anneith was afraid she had been too blunt.

“So where are they now?”

She shook her head, hands instinctively going to the edges of the blanket to wrap it tighter. “I don’t know.”

 

~*~

 

They continued. For weeks upon weeks upon weeks, huddled in their tents, rations slowly running out. Malvolia was hit the hardest, inconsolable about the amount of wealth their family had lost. Ubel let her rage until he could stand it no more, then roared at her to keep quiet. His patience could last from either ten seconds or a half hour, and Anneith never knew which it was going to be.

Malvolia obeyed the erratic commands with whimpering protest, eyes rubbed raw red from crying. Anneith stayed silent.

But by far the strangest thing involving her father was that the camp’s residents had started to . . . look up to Ubel. For guidance. She had severely misjudged just how many connections he had forged around the island. Males and females alike recognized him, even in the shell-shocked early days setting up the camp. And now, he had become somewhat of a leader, as fear-tainted as the association sounded in her mind. Ubel had taken on the responsibility of assuring the immortals that everything would be fine, that the whole situation was bound to be resolved in a matter of time. And even Malvolia had taken on the role of politician’s golden wife, always at Ubel’s side.

Well, if Ubel was set on being a leader, he might have to work on his furnishings first, Anneith thought. Because their housing was far from grand.

Their tent had the bare minimum. That was to say, it had nearly nothing. A few blankets on the floor to serve as a bed, a tiny wooden structure to serve as a table, and a flimsy excuse for a showering station. And no fire. In fact, the only fire was one that had been set up in the center of the camp, too far from their tent to reap the benefits of. So Anneith would go every night to the fire, boil water above it while the other residents were off to bed, and carry the pot back to her tent, where it would be someone’s job that night to keep the water boiling to ensure that they at least had some vestige of warmth. None of their magic was particularly strong, but they rationed it siphon by siphon every night.

Tonight, her fingers were stiff from the cold as she held the pot, and she felt the chilly air sweep underneath her coat as she trudged her way back to the tent. Silvery moonlight lit her path, although it wasn’t nearly bright enough to prevent her from nearly tripping over her own feet. A few drops of water spilled onto her skin, and she hissed at the burn.

Memories resurfaced, but she hastily pushed them down and hurried, even faster than before.

She was a mere dozen steps away—so close she could hear her parents’ low voices—before a tremor jolted through her body. Her head immediately snapped back, scanning the land behind her for any trace of activity. Her arm strained from the weight of carrying the pot, and she wondered briefly if it would more hinder or hurt her to use it as a weapon. Or if she had just imagined the sensation.

A shadow rustled to her left, and she whirled to it, arm trembling as she forced it against gravity—

“Anneith.”

Did he know how she hated it? That her heart sped up as a reflex every time she heard his voice, every time he stepped out of the shadows to reveal those beautiful, chiseled features, irresistible,  as if leading her into death. Could he see that the tremor in her fingers was no longer caused by the weight of the water, but by him?

“What are you doing here?” She kept her voice flat. It wasn’t hard; part of her already wished that he wasn’t standing in front of her.

“I—I had to see you.” He stepped closer, and Anneith was able to see his full face. Goddess, he was paler than she remembered him, almost gaunt as he looked down at her. His hair was disheveled. Only a loose shirt and trousers hung off of him. And as Hellas reached for her with shaking fingers, she let him. She held back a sigh as his warm hand wrapped around hers.

“You’re fine,” he said, more to himself than her.

“Of course I’m fine,” she said, although the words felt sarcastic even to her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just—” he shook his head. “I—I visited your home, and—”

“—I don’t want to talk about it.”

Hellas nodded mutely. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he offered quietly.

She gave him a short nod in return. “Tell me what happened. To . . . to this island.” It was a demand, not a request.

He threaded his fingers through his midnight hair, opening his mouth to speak, when—

“—Anneith! Is that you? Hurry up with the water!” Malvolia whispered into the darkness, her voice carrying easily.

“I’ll be right out,” she muttered to Hellas, not bothering to wait for confirmation before completing the route to the tent, ducking underneath the flaps. She plopped the pot down in the center of the tent.

Malvolia squinted at it, but it was Ubel who spoke. “It’s gone cold.”

“I’m sorry, but the fire had already gone out, and I didn’t want to keep you waiting while I built up a new one, so I used the embers and what little kindling I had.” Lied Anneith deftly.

Ubel grunted. “Alright.” He jutted his chin towards his wife. “I believe it is your turn to keep the water warm.”

Malvolia obeyed, and within moments vapor began to rise off the surface of the water. Anneith rubbed her freezing ears before turning to her parents, widening her eyes in mock horror. “Oh no! I think I left my bracelet at the fire!”

“What bracelet?”

“The one Uncle gave me.” She slipped her hands behind her back, pushing said bracelet up her sleeve, hoping that she had too many uncles for her parents to ask which one.

Malvolia gasped. “The gold and emerald one?”

Anneith nodded fearfully. “I need to go get it!” She insisted, already buttoning up her coat again.

“It’s dark,” said Ubel dismissively. “You’re better off looking for it in the morning.”

“But what if it gets stolen?”

“The vast majority of the beings here are wealthy beyond reason,” her father said flatly. “I doubt they’ll have any use for a girl’s trinket.”

“But Ubel,” whispered her mother. “That bracelet, it’s worth a fortune, should we need it—”

“—it’s nothing. Have you forgotten how many other bracelets we have? That I can buy you?”

“But if something happens!—”

“—fine!” Shouted Ubel, collapsing into a chair and rubbing his temple with a hand. “Well?” He demanded of his daughter, making a shooing motion with his hand. “Go!”

 

~*~

 

“Where are we going?” She asked, as Hellas took the lead, directingthem away from the tent.

“To the library.”

“Athinerva? But I thought that there were few entrances?”

“Yes, there are a limited number. But most of them are concentrated here, or in the Flatlands. We’re headed towards one about a quarter mile away from here.”

The ground was soft, saturated with last night’s rain, the thick smell of petrichor rising from the dirt. Dewdrops clung to the grass and leaves, the moonlight made minute in each tear. “Why do we have to go to the library? It’s not as if anyone will discover you. Not at this hour.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Hellas didn’t slow his stride.

“So what are you worried about?”

She heard him take a shaky breath. “Telling this story.”

 

~*~

 

Anneith couldn’t enjoy the beauty of the library without remembering the bleak environment of the camp in the Plains, so at odds with the sleek mahogany bookcases and huge fireplace. She couldn’t take off her jacket without thinking about how some in the Plains had no blankets, or see a leftover plate of cookies without thinking about the dwindling supply of food that confronted her people.

Hellas himself seemed absent minded, as he ran from one end of the room to the other, to light the fire and then pull out a chair for her, to shut the door and to clear away stray books. She watched as he finally seemed to run out of energy, and sagged into an adjacent chair. He ran a hand through his already-messy hair again. “You know who is here, yes?”

“The Valg.”

The words tasted as wrong as they had, months ago.

Hellas seemed to crumple even more at the verbalization. “Yes. And you must know of their movements around the island, it’s been the talk of just about every town. Of those that are left standing, of course.”

It was Anneith’s turn to shiver. “Are there . . . are there many left?”

“No.”

“What do they want?”

He rubbed at his eyes, and she noticed the dark circles surrounding them. “I don’t know,” Hellas said finally.

Her eyes narrowed. “How—how could you not know?”

“Your armies and militias assumed they were invading—feasibly so—and rose up to meet them, but—” the dark god shook his head “—none of their movements following battles have been characteristic of an invasion.”

“Oh, you don’t think slaughtering innocent beings and then parading around their lands like monarchs is characteristic of an invasion?”

Hellas shook his head, and her anger flamed at the tiny smile that seemed to curve his lips. “I forgot you are well versed in strategy.”

“It just seems,” she said, silent rage lacing her every word, “that you don’t seem to care very much whether this island falls to the Valg or not.”

His eyes snapped up, and fury shone in them—equal to hers. She did not cower as he stood, lording over her. “Do you think I like this?” He snarled. “Do you think I enjoy seeing monsters parade around the bodies of the innocent?” He gave a dark laugh. “I may be the god of death, but the souls that pass into the afterlife weigh on me individually, and when equilibrium is not maintained—that is to say, when the dead are passing in _hundreds_ , then _thousands_ , then perhaps _millions_ within the next few days—I crumple.”

“So it’s a matter of what _you_ feel then?” Anneith had shot to her feet, to compete with his ridiculous height. “You, you, _you_ , not anyone else? Excuse me, _your majesty_ , King of Hell—but we’ve been crumpling for weeks while you’ve been sitting pretty in this library, or on your throne. What say you, then, if you do not care for the slaughter of innocents?”

He gave a sharp laugh. “This island . . .” he set a hand on the elegant carving of the chair back. “This island is of the utmost consequence to us,” he said, almost to himself.

“Why? Because we have such beautiful scenery?” Replied Anneith sarcastically.

“Why do you think the name of your island is what it is? _Divine Island_ , didn’t you ever wonder? Why do we care about this tiny island in the middle of nowhere, my brothers and sisters and I? Because it is real. It is named Divine Island because, long ago, it used to be.” He turned away from her, to face one of the large windows lining the wall. “This was the first island the Great Goddess created, out of the nothingness in the universe. Then, after that, Lumas, and Farnor, and the rest of them. And myself, as well. And we all lived on the Island for centuries, in war.”

“With the Valg.”

He nodded, turning back to her. “With the Valg. And that was the last time they occupied this island, millennia ago.” A shadow crossed his face. “Some were more difficult to rid than others. But this island has always been home, for the gods. Although we have ascended to a different dimension, this island has remained our birthplace and birthright. And we would rather die by your side than watch it be taken again.”

“Then if all of the gods are fighting, why haven’t the Valg been forced out yet?”

She dreaded the answer before she even heard it.

Hellas sagged over the back of a chair, his arms the only thing keeping him upright. “I suspect that the Valg are much more powerful than they were. They’ve been biding their time. Looking for something.”

“Looking for something? Looking for what?”

“I don’t know. It just . . . it seems odd. That they kept to their own lands for so long, occasionally coming out to explore. They could have just been scouting for the right time, but . . .” Hellas shook his head, looking troubled. “I worry about how quickly this has all progressed. As if they knew exactly how the sequence of events would play out.”

Anneith turned the information over in her mind. If the Valg were looking for something, then Hellas’s previous words rang true: their actions were not characteristic of those suited towards invasion. She thought about the systematic way they were working their way to all corners of the island. How they had left entire towns flipped upside down. So if they _were_ looking for something . . . “What do you think they’ll do—”

_Boom._

Anneith was thrown to the ground, head just inches away from a leg of the table, by the sudden jolt, so reminiscent of the destruction of the Leander that she screamed. Dull ringing sounded in her ears, and she began to shake violently. “No,” she whispered. “Please, no, no, no, no—!” Tears, wet and slippery, cascaded down her cheeks as she began to shriek. “Please, please, please,” she sobbed. “Please, I don’t want to do this again, I don’t—”

“Shh,” Hellas was next to her in an instant, his arms wrapping around her waist. “Anneith, shh, I’ve got you, it’s fine, it’s fine.” His fingers were smoothing down her hair.

“I—I—”

“—Shh, I know, I know, I—” Suddenly, his head snapped up, his eyes narrowing at something beyond the door. “Shh,” he hissed, not unkindly, but certainly with urgency. He moved towards the door, the absence of his warmth leaving her strangely icy. It was then that she was able to swipe at her tears and survey the damage. The explosion had shattered the windows, and much of the black granite that made up the wall had also been destroyed, the rubble in chunks around her. Glass in her hair caught the moon’s reflection.

Anneith rose up on her knees, shaky. Piece of shattered window cut into her knees. “Hellas?” She whispered.

She swallowed a cry as the god came barreling around the corner, a wild look in his eyes. He took ahold of her shoulders. “You need to go.”

“What? Why—”

“—just trust me!” He cupped her face. “Please, Anneith, please.”

“Why?”

“Anneith, I—” he looked towards the door, and now she could hear—a sound almost like boots on glass, crunching and cracking. “—because the Valg are going to come in that door any moment now, and I need you to be gone.”

“But—what about you?”

“I just need you to go,” he repeated. “Please, Anneith!”

“I’m not—I’m not leaving you!” She shook her head, half stubborn and half despairing. She had left too many people in her life to do it again.

His eyes searched hers, and he smiled softly. “You must.” His thumb came up to stroke her cheek, and she didn’t know who moved first, him or her, but—

—suddenly their lips were pressed together, a split second touch turned eternity long promise. It was a bridge between two souls, far more intimate than she had ever let herself get with anyone. Anneith moaned as he coaxed her mouth open, hands sliding down to her waist—

He pulled away, his forehead resting against hers for half a moment before—

“Goodbye, Anneith.”

That was the last she saw of him, standing alone in the ruins of the Library at Athinerva, staring at her like she was something out of his dreams. Just before she was sucked into a portal to carry her far, far away.

 

~*~

 

She was dumped unceremoniously on the grassy field where she and Hellas had taken the first entrance to the library. Anneith stared up at the sky, unable to muster the strength—or state of mind—to get up. She lifted her head to stare back where the door to the other realm had been, almost unable to comprehend what had just happened. How—how in the world had she just—what had just—

_Boom._

Anneith heard the sound of explosions in the background, towards the camp. The same sound.

And she took off running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	18. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Graehem (gray-hem)  
> Aislin (ash-LYNN)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Mantyx (man-TIX)  
> Oleandus (oh-lee-AN-dus)  
> Parle (par-l)

Screams filled the air as Anneith came up on the camp.

“No!”

“Please, Please, I—!”

“Where is he? Where’s my son?”

The camp was a mess. Tents had been ripped, shredded, knocked over. And in the distance—the sound of something Anneith knew was warfare. Soldiers clad in red advanced with— _gods_. Sickles, something she had never thought she would see.

She had always imagined the battlefield to be a wide expanse of dirt and dead soil, the kind that could kick up into storms larger than the Island. But the scene in front of her was very different. Anneith ran past fallen tents, on-fire little huts, and tried not to look at the limp bodies, bloodied and beaten, lining the ground. But one little body—eyes still wide open—made her stop.

“No,” she whispered, sprinting over. “No, please, no—”

But Nadya was already dead.

_What this war was doing to children._

Anneith searched frantically for something she could cover the girl with, finally settling on a discarded blanket. She stifled a shiver at the sight of the blood-soaked material, but it was all she had. A prayer for the dead spilled out of her mouth before she could process it.

_I may be the god of death, but the souls that pass into the afterlife weigh on me individually, and when equilibrium is not maintained—that is to say, when the dead are passing in hundreds, then thousands, then perhaps millions within the next few days . . ._

She swallowed harshly. Another shot sounded in the distance, and she knew she couldn’t stay. Hair whipping around her face, she looked around desperately for her parents.

A part of her, an evil nagging part of her, asked, _is it really worth it? To look for them?_

_Shut up._

_But is it, Anneith? Is it?_

_Shut_ _up_ _._

She tampered down the doubt, exhaling sharply. It was worth it. Of course it was worth it. Her parents were her only family left.

It shouldn’t have gotten harder than that.

She spotted a trembling mass of dark hair and ridiculously elegant furs. “Mother?”

Malvolia was sniffling as she turned around, Ubel’s arm holding her against him. “Anneith, we—”

“Anneith,” interrupted her father brusquely. “We cannot stay here.”

 _I think I can realize that for myself._ “What do we do?”

Ubel nodded towards the opposite end of the field. “Do you see those trees?”

Her heart sank. “You don’t mean to—?”

“Yes. We are going to make it across the field while they’re distracted.”

“Father, do you—do you even know what is on the opposite side of the field?” The scenes from Athinerva—less than an hour ago—flashed through her mind. The panic in Hellas’s eyes, his demand that she escape before—before—

“Of course I do.”

“Then you should know—”

“—don’t question me, girl!” Her father roared, and she shrunk back. Malvolia cowered under the two of them. He brushed the dirt off of his jacket, as if he was at a social gathering instead of in the middle of a battlefield. “If you two wish not to accompany me, then so be it. Just know that it is your own lives you are gambling, not mine.”

Ubel never got the chance to run.

It was as if a cloud had settled over the camp. A ghost silence fell over the field, and movement halted. Mothers searching the bodies for their children froze. Immortals screaming at the carnage abruptly shut their mouths. Even the red-decked soldiers stopped their advance.

One soldier, armor painted silver alongside the scarlet made their way to the front of the army, which promptly assembled behind them. Gloved hands came up to take their black helmet off, and she could see that it was a man. Youthful-looking, with dark brown hair, high cheekbones, and—golden eyes. Beautiful beyond reality.

But the power that rolled off of him— _gods_. It was why the immortals had frozen, too afraid to say anything. Even now, she could see the black tendrils of magic rolling off of his armor, weaving its way into the crowd, around the tents. She shuddered as one passed her.

“Immortals of the Divine Island,” said the man, smiling at them as if they had pleased him. “My name is King Mantyx.”

 _Mantyx_ . The name sent a shiver down her skin. _Mantyx, Mantyx—where have I heard that before?_ Her eyes snapped back to attention. _No. No, it couldn’t be._

“I don’t know if you have heard of me,” Mantyx said, chuckling. “It has been a little longer than I would have hoped, the separation of our land from yours. But yes, I am one of the beings that dwell across what I suppose you call the Endless Sea. In fact, I am one of their three kings.”

The Valg king began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. “I apologize for the violence shown today.” Laughter broke out among the army behind him, and she heard her mother whimper. “But as you know, our . . . visit to your lovely island has been met with ridiculous carnage on the behalf of your people. However, I’m sure that this group is much more intelligent than your previous counterparts, yes?”

No one responded.

“From now on, my army and I will be camping here. We will be learning the lay of the land. We look forward to . . . forming bonds with you.” Mantyx smiled, and Anneith instinctively shrank back. His smile reminded her of the charallya she and Hellas had narrowly avoided, over nine months ago. Predatory and powerful.

“Now,” said the king, clapping his hands together casually. “Is there a leader? Of sorts? That I can talk with.”

Silence. Before—

“Me,” said Ubel. Malvolia let out a cry, only stifled by a sharp look from her husband. Anneith watched as her father stepped forward. “I’m the leader of this camp.”

“Perfect.” Mantyx bared his teeth in another smile. “Why don’t we talk a little bit? Get to know each other?”

 

~*~

 

She couldn’t believe her eyes.

In the span of days, the Valg were camped beside them. _Beside them_. And they were “allies.” And her father was the “negotiator.” Gods, gods, gods, what was happening?

“It’s good,” her mother offered one night while they set up the bed in their new cabin. Yes, that was right. Their new cabin.

The Valg had made an effort to form bonds, like Mantyx had announced they would. But even she was impressed. They had built new shacks and cabins for the weary immortals, and because Ubel was their leader—his family got the very best. It was nearly septuple the size of their original tent, equipped with running water, three full beds, and a fireplace. How they had managed that, Anneith was still unsure.

“Is this really a good idea?” She muttered to Malvolia, days later, as they scrubbed clothes in the bath.

Anneith had been feeling ill for the past few days: nausea, migraines, vomiting when no one was watching. But with the presence of the Valg, more beings were sick than ever, and she was just a dot in the crowd.

Her mother pursed her lips.

“It’s much better than where we were before.”

“But—the Valg, what—”

“— _shh_!” Her mother hissed, her eyes going wide. “Do not,” she said, her voice lowered. “Do not say the—their—their _name_.”

“Why?”

“Because—because,” her mother sighed, and the water splashed as her hands dropped into the tub. “When I was a girl, growing up, we were never allowed to speak of those across the sea. I didn’t even learn what they were until I was _married_. And now—”

“—now they’re here.”

Malvolia shook her head. “Just do what they want.”

“Even though they slaughtered half the camp?”

“Anneith! I—” Malvolia looked around, face frozen in fear, as if someone was listening. “We have no choice,” she sibilated. “We do what they want, and we do everything we need to preserve ourselves.”

“Even if it means collaborating with the enemy?”

Her mother’s mouth was set in a thin line. “Especially if it means collaborating with the enemy.”

 

~*~

 

“Excuse me.”

Anneith looked up from her paper, the sparks from the central campfire shooting at her. From a letter to Aislin that she had written and rewritten at least eight times. She didn’t even know if her dear friend was . . .

She swallowed before she could finish the thought.

It was a boy who had caught her attention. He was thin, with a boyish face and golden blonde hair. He couldn’t have been much younger than her, and the steely resolve that lined his expression certainly supported that. He was dressed plainly, almost too plain for the rich immortals that she had come across in the camp.

She set down her pen. “Sorry, can I help you?” Anneith pulled herself to her feet, stuffing the paper into a pocket in her coat as she brushed stray bits of grass from herself.

“Yes. Yeah, you can.” The boy’s tone was sharp. “I just want to know why the other dozens of immortals here seem to be able to go about their days still stuffing themselves, while I can’t even find a place for my mother to sleep warm.”

“I’m—I’m sorry, that sounds awful, I—”

“—yeah.” The boy’s eyes were bright with anger. “It is.” He sneered at her. “Although I’m sure you’ve never had to imagine a life like that.”

“Well, if you’re trying to get help from me, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it,” she snapped back. “What do you want?”

“Oh, you’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you?” The boy shook his head in disgust. “So obsessed with your wealth that you can’t even bother to help other people.”

“Well, here’s a thought. Maybe I’m just too involved in the fact that there’s a boy that I’ve never seen in my life, standing in front of me, mouthing me off all while asking for supplies to help his ill mother. Am I wrong?”

At the sound of _mother_ , the boy seemed to deflate. But before he could say anything, insult or apology, there was a loud crash near them. A terrified yelp came from a woman, and Anneith instinctively grabbed the boy’s wrist and dragged them behind one of the tents destroyed from the Valg’s entrance. They peered around the corner.

“What the hell is this?” Roared a Valg soldier, decked in red. He had a female pinned to the wall of a little cabin. “What is this?”

“I—it’s—it’s just m—my son’s toy, please, he didn’t mean any harm—”

The soldier shifted, and there was a little play sword in his grip. Anneith’s heart sank as she saw the accompanying doll—decorated to look like a Valg soldier—in the opposite hand. “Toy? You call this a toy?”

“Please,” whimpered the woman. “H—he’s just a boy, he didn’t know what he was doing, it—it was all me, please—”

“—then I’ll take your word for it,” The play sword and the doll were dropped to the ground as the soldier drew his own sword. Not play, not child-sized. As long as the soldier’s legs, sharp silver glinting in the sun. The woman didn’t scream, merely stood, frozen, little sobs choking in her throat as the soldier advanced.

“No,” muttered the boy next to her. His wrist was still held in her grip. “H—he wouldn’t. Right?”

“I don’t know about that,” she whispered back.  _Think, Anneith, think, how do we—_

But she didn’t have to. All of a sudden, a booming voice sounded. “Oleandus, what do you think you are doing?”

Mantyx himself was there, and she had to squeeze the boy’s wrist to prevent him from squeaking. The king was next to his son in an instant. “My, my, what a situation we have here.”

“I found those—” the soldier, Oleandus, jerked his head towards the doll and play sword, “near her. They belong to her son.”

Mantyx’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the two objects, and for a second, Anneith thought that the day would end with a double execution. At the least.

But to her surprise, the king began to smile. “Well, we can’t all control our children, is that right, my lady?”

The female, eyes still cross-eyed as they stared at the sword, could only let out a small whimper.

Mantyx nodded towards Oleandus. “I think you have better things to do right now.”

The soldier blinked, “But, f—”

“—I _said_ , I think you have better things to do.”

The soldier’s eyes were nearly alight with anger, but he bowed his head and withdrew his sword.

Anneith exhaled, and she and the boy all but collapsed as she let go of his wrist.

“That . . .” the boy was at a loss for words.

Anneith shook her head. “I don’t think we should stay here any longer. What does your mother actually need?”

The boy was still in shock. “Um . . . blankets. She needs blankets.”

“Food?”

“A little, but if there are no more rations—”

“—I thought you said that we were so obsessed with wealth that we were beside ourself with gluttony.”

“I—” the boy scratched his head. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “I . . . my mother has not been doing well recently. We thought that we could make it through the recent wave of cold weather, but we’re already entering autumn, and I’m worried that what we have won’t be enough. And I know that your family is . . . well, I guess they’re our leaders now.”

“Don’t . . . don’t you have a shelter? And I don’t mean a tent. Do you have a cabin? I know that they’ve been building a lot recently.”

The boy laughed, a sound that would have been sweet if it wasn’t hollow. “Look at me,” he said, gesturing at his clothes. “Do you think they would spare a second glance at me?”

“So . . . I’m guessing that you’re not one of the . . .” Anneith faltered as they made their way towards the stocks.

“The wealthy and powerful?” Offered the boy. “No. I’m not. My mother was a servant in a manor near here. Then they came, and we evacuated.” He was silent for a moment. “The others didn’t take us seriously when we said that we were hauling ass out of there. They thought we were crazy. And then the manor, it . . .”

He cut off abruptly. Anneith could guess what had happened.

It had happened to her, too.

“It’s just good that you escaped in time,” she said, opening the door to the storehouse. “And—I didn’t introduce myself.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Anneith.”

He took it. “Parle. My name’s Parle.”

They collected supplies in silence, but Anneith couldn’t get her mind off of the expression on the female’s face as the soldier had advanced. The fear on her face for herself—and the determination to get her son as far away from the situation as possible.

Was that what it was like? To have—

“Parle?”

“Hmm?” Parle looked at her.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.” And then, before she could even open her mouth— “Look, if you’re about to lecture me on how young I am—to be doing this, to be here, or whatever—don’t. I’ve heard it all. Hell, I’ve thought it all.”

She let out a short laugh and shook her head. “Sorry, I . . . This is insane, isn’t it?”

“That is an understatement.” Parle looked from side to side, as if scouting for spies. “You saw that soldier that almost killed that woman, right?”

Anneith nodded. “Why? Do you know him?”

Parle shook his head slowly. “Just . . . rumors, I guess. But there have been immortals saying—immortals like your father, privy to all sorts of knowledge—saying that . . . Oleandus is the king’s son. He’s a Valg prince.”

 

~*~

 

Anneith clenched her teeth to keep from shivering as she walked back to the cabin. Parle had thanked her for nearly half an hour after she had managed to procure blankets and food for him. She had promised to ask about building a cabin for him and his mother, although they both silently agreed that it was unlikely to happen.

But, all afternoon, she had been warring with herself.

Was Parle the next Nadya? Another poor child caught in the middle of a war they had no responsibility for? To be alive and happy one minute, then dead in another? And in fact, whose fault was it for this war? Was it theirs? Had they done something to deserve this, any of them? The rich and the poor, the aristocrats and the servants, any of them?

Anneith was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice the sounds of her parents talking until she was about to open the cabin door.

“It’s the only way,” Malvolia was saying.

“I completely agree. But we must tread carefully. Once we give them what they want, they will surely ask for more.” Her father’s voice was low, cold and calculating. “This is a precaution.”

“The quicker we do it, the better. To help us and to help them.”

“I agree.”

Her blood went cold. To do what? To help them? She waited at the door to listen for any more scheming, but only the crackle and pop of the fireplace was audible.

 

~*~

 

She found out the next day.

“Lady Anneith?”

Anneith looked up from her seat on the grass to see a young female peering down at her. “Yes?”

“Um, your parents asked me to tell you to go back to your cabin?”

“Oh. Um—thank you.”

The female nodded and scampered away. Anneith picked herself up from the grass for the second time in two days and picked at the residual dirt. She couldn’t imagine what her parents urgently needed her for; she had just seen them two hours ago. Unless Malvolia had come down with some illness—

“Ah, Anneith. Come in.” Her father almost didn’t look like himself as he led her inside, pale and shaky. As if he was scared.

She stifled a shiver as she saw the two people standing in the cabin’s central room. “I—your majesty,” she gasped, dipping into a low curtsy.

“Lady Anneith,” said Mantyx courteously. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

She tried not to stare at the king or Oleandus as she shakily straightened again.

“She’s lovely,” Mantyx said conversationally. Not to her, to her parents. “I’m so glad we could settle this. The immortals will be thrilled.”

“Yes,” replied Ubel. “I’m sure they will be.”

“Anneith, dear,” said Malvolia, her tone sickeningly sweet. She stifled a flinch as her mother’s hand came down on her shoulder in a poor facsimile of a comforting touch. “We just received word that poor Graehem didn’t make it. The Flatlands were hit hard with . . . conflict, and he was lost in the haze.”

“Oh . . .” Anneith swallowed, unsure of how to respond. “That’s awful.”

“Yes . . . it is. But fortunately, His Majesty here managed to come up with a wonderful alternative.”

“Yes,” broke in Mantyx. “My son—”

 _No_.

“—Oleandus, he happens to be looking for a wife—”

 _No_.

“—And what better way for our people to join together than through a wedding?”

Anneith finally lifted her eyes to look at Oleandus. His mahogany hair matched his father’s, but there was something in his eyes that made her shrink back. Even more so than Mantyx’s. The prince looked almost bored. Until his eyes shifted directly towards Anneith’s, and she looked away on instinct.

“Yes,” agreed Malvolia cheerfully. “And for the time? I was thinking about five or six weeks from now?”

“Perfect,” replied Mantyx. “After all, my armies and I have to settle some . . . friendly discussions with the rest of the Island.” The animalistic nature of his smile did little to hide the underlying message. Her parents laughed nervously.

But Anneith . . .

_I’m marrying a Valg prince._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	19. Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Mantyx (man-TIX)  
> Oleandus (oh-lee-AN-dus)  
> Ravana (rah-vah-NA)

Weeks after weeks passed. People passed by her tent constantly, peering in, whispering about the future bride of a Valg prince. She didn't bring herself to fight against them. She was too tired, too spent, to argue.

Nothing she could have said would have made a difference.

The only part of this that she thanked the powers that were was the fact that neither Mantyx nor Oleandus seemed too fussy over her. Yet. Mantyx had been absent from the camp for a number of weeks by now. With him, a substantial number of soldiers—including Oleandus. Anneith shuddered to think of what they could be doing.

Malvolia had taken it upon herself to be the mother she never had been, a fact that Anneith noted

with no small sense of disgust. Her mother fussed over the wedding preparations. The other day, she had lobbed insults at a girl who had brought the wrong flavor of cake.

Of _cake._

They were in the midst of a war, and her mother was occupied with cake.

Anneith shook her head to herself as sat on a log in the middle of the forest that bordered the camp. Everyday, she walked close to an hour just to find what she was looking for. Today was another one of those trips.

Anneith held the plant up to the sunlight, twirling it between her middle and pointer finger. It looked harmless enough; a few yellow petals edged with white, surrounding a dark center. Like any other wildflower. She turned next to her, where she had already collected close to thirty of the same flowers.

The brook where the refugees collected water from was another fifteen-minute walk. She took the same way she had taken the first leg of the journey: in a daze. This all felt like a terrible fever nightmare, of which there was no awakening to be completed. It was the awful kind of nightmare where even if she woke up, she would never be the same. Anneith watched as the water rushed over the delicate petals of the flower, so thin that they looked as if they were about to fall off. The water drops collected on the leaves further down the stem, rounding out into perfect little hemispheres.

Anneith took a deep breath. She would have said a prayer, if she still believed in the power of the gods to save her.

And she swallowed a mouthful of the flowers.

It clogged in her throat, but she calmly cupped a handful of water in her palms and washed it down. The water did nothing to stop the burn as the flowers went down.

She remembered asking Cao—someone—about the flowers. Age five or six, she had come into the kitchen, a wad of them in her tiny fist. “Pretty,” she had squealed, sticking them into their face.

That someone had swatted them out of the way. “These flowers are no laughing matter,” she had said. “Do you know what they do to you? You didn’t eat any, did you?”

Little Anneith had shrunk back in fear at her tone. “No.”

“Good.” They had resumed cutting fruit.

“What do they do to you?”

“You’ll find out when you’re older, Anneith.”

“No,” she had pleaded. “Please?”

Her puppy face had been spot-on at that age. They put down their paring knife and squatted down to her height (even shorter than she was now). “These flowers are safe to touch,” she said, holding Anneith’s fingers in hers. “Not like the ivy that grows near town. But don’t eat them. If you eat them, you’re going to wreck your body. You’ll never be able to have babies if you eat too much.”

Six-year-old her had been terrified of anything happening to her body. Babies or otherwise.

Twenty-year-old her welcomed it. Reveled, even, in the burning down her throat.

She was marrying a Valg prince. That she did not fight. Had no more fight left in her, in fact.

But children? She would bear him none. None that would grow up to have golden eyes like his, none that would grow up to enjoy the same cruelty as he did. None that she would sit back and witness being corrupted.

So Anneith welcomed the pain. Welcomed the destruction, welcomed the consequences.

 

~*~

 

Her mother ambushed her in the center of the camp. “Anneith,” she squealed, forcing a loop of her arm through  Anneith’s.

“Hello, Mother.”

“Oh, what formalities! But I suppose they are necessary. After all, in a week and a half, you’ll be your own woman!” Malvolia sighed, content. “Your own woman, with a house of your own—well, as soon as these little skirmishes between the king and villagers end—and a family! Just think of that.”

“It’s incredible.”

“Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself! Truth be told, I’m glad I ran into you. Strangest thing, all the immortals I asked said they didn’t know where you were!”

“Strange,” she replied. Nothing. No rush in her heart, no heat in her cheeks. No sign of panic.

“King Mantyx has invited us to his cabin.”

Did it please her, her Mother? To be able to forgo the “His Majesty” and go straight to calling the king by his given name? To be able to brag to everyone who passed, to give out invitations to some and then snub others? Anneith herself would have enjoyed the same vanities. Once.

“Did he say why?”

Her mother shook her head, and was almost beside herself as she scrambled to knock on the king’s door.

Anneith averted her eyes the instant she saw Oleandus’s golden eyes. “My father is this way,” he said stiffly, taking off the moment he finished. Malvolia didn’t seem to notice, and practically skipped into the abode. Anneith followed, keeping her paces as cautious as possible.

Mantyx’s cabin was, unsurprisingly, the most luxurious of all of the ones in the camp. It was triple the size of Ubel’s, and had rooms. With doors. Anneith looked at them with cool interest.

The king himself stood near the fireplace, chatting with a female before he caught sight of them. “Ah! Malvolia. Anneith.” He placed a hand on the female’s back. “I want you to meet my daughter, Ravana.”

Ravana turned, and Anneith had to hold back a sharp inhale.

She was beyond beautiful, with thick, glossy black hair—unlike her father and brother—and moon-pale skin. Crimson lips curved up into a smile as she beheld them. “Hello,” she said, curtsying. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

Anneith could see her mother struggling to contain her excitement at meeting yet another member of the royal family. “Oh, the pleasure is all ours.”

“So you’re to be my sister, then?”

It took Anneith a moment to realize that Ravana was talking to her. “Oh! Yes, yes.”

The princess clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Well, why don’t we go out, talk a little bit? Get to know each other?” She looped her arm through Anneith’s. Anneith felt a little shock as Ravana’s hand brushed against hers. There was something familiar about her, although she couldn’t place it.

“Oh . . . of course.” She wasn’t sure there was much else she could say.

“Fantastic! I’ll see you later, Father.”

 

~*~

 

“So where do you come from?”

Anneith stumbled behind a little, as the princess deftly stepped over a rocky patch of tree roots. “The Cliffs. Of Iseult, that is.”

“Oh, the Cliffs. I do believe we passed them on our way here. They’re quite lovely.”

“Yes,” she said, feeling almost faint. “Yes, they are.”

“Why don’t we sit here?” Ravana gestured to a log near the central campfire. “So you’re marrying my brother,” she said when they were both seated. “That’s big.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it certainly is a large responsibility.”

“Yes. It is.”

Ravana smiled, an absurdly beautiful thing. “I don’t think you should worry too much about it.”

“Oh. Why—why is that?”

“My brother,” she explained, “is not very intelligent. He really isn’t. I doubt he’ll expect much.”

“Oh.”

Ravana laughed. “That should be a good thing.”

“I—it is. It is.” Anneith tried to discreetly rub her sweaty palms on her dress. Exhaustion settled over her. “It is.”

“And, you know, he isn’t even my full brother.”

“Oh?”

“No. My father has many . . . consorts, let’s call them. Some are . . . more esteemed than others. My mother was a princess from one of the smaller kingdoms in our land. Oleandus’s mother was a maid.”

“Oh.”

“Well, don’t look down on him just yet.”

“I wasn’t.”

“It’s all right,” Ravana said, placing a hand on her back. “We all have our inherent prejudices. But supposedly my father took a liking to Oleandus the first time he saw him. Took him under his wing. Sometimes I think he likes him more than he likes me. But don’t let Oleandus hear my concession, he’ll be thrilled beyond a reasonable amount.”

Anneith laughed, and although it was half out of nervousness, and she felt like she was coming down with some illness, she was . . . relaxed. At ease.

Ravana looked pleased with herself. “Well then, sister-to-be,” she helped Anneith up. “Why don’t you take me on a tour of the camp?”

 

~*~

 

She had no idea how she had been forced into this.

Ravana had already been in the camp for three days. Three days. It meant that there were three days less before she was to be married. Officially. No dodging, no catastrophes like her past engagements. Officially.

She still took her flowers every day, waking up before the Sun came up to walk to the brook and choke them down. The sight of her betrothed’s face every day was reminder enough.

But this . . . this was a whole new outing.

“Don’t be shy, Anneith!” Called Ravana, who had paced ahead with Oleandus. “It’s just a friendly exercise.”

She laughed nervously. “I just—I’ve never done this before.”

“Well, there’s a learning curve for everything!”

Oleandus had already dropped his bag, the heavy weight settling into the dirt with a loud thump. Ravana squatted beside the bag. Anneith stifled a harsh swallow—and the urge to curse her father for forcing her on this “trip”—as the princess emerged with a bow and a sheath of arrows.

Ravana ran one finger along the curved side, admiring the pearl-shiny wood. “You’ve never seen a bow and arrows before?”

She felt stupid. “No, I—I have. But not quite—not quite this close before.”

“It’s an incredible thing,” replies Ravana, her eyes still on the weapon. “The distance an arrow is able to cover, when wielded by a good archer. It’s what makes them so dangerous. Archers, that is.”

Oleandus smirked. “Cut off their second and third fingers, and they’re useless.”

Ravana rolled her eyes. “Cut the theatrics and just shoot, Oleandus.”

Anneith took jittery steps back as the prince hefted the bow and strung an arrow.

There was a flash of golden brown, and the arrow was stuck in a tree. Perhaps sixty yards away. Ravana scoffed. “That’s the best you can do?”

Oleandus didn’t respond. Instead, he fixed his gaze on Anneith and nodded his head towards the arrow. “Go get it.” His eyes gleamed golden.”

Anneith nodded, feet already moving before Ravana sighed, “Must you be so crass, brother?”

“No, it’s—it’s alright,” she murmured. Anything to stop Oleandus from looking at her again. She could have sworn she felt woozy from it all.

“I’ll go with you,” Ravana insisted, shooting a look at the prince. “Honestly, what a barbarian,” she whispered as they made their way across the forest floor.

Anneith chuckled lightly.“It’s alright, really. I don’t—I don’t exactly need an escort.”

“Yeah, well, the longer we take, the less time he’ll have to make his move. He’s in limbo right now, waiting for me. A female’s dream.”

The arrow was plucked from its tree trunk prison, and returned to Oleandus.

Ravana beat his record by forty yards.

 

~*~

 

Perhaps it was the flowers.

Anneith hung her head over the fourth washbasin that night. Her father had taken one look at her and snarled at Malvolia impatiently, “Deal with this.”

Malvolia, in turn, had waited exactly eight minutes after Ubel had left placed a stack of washbins and a large pot full of water next to her, and left. “It’s to preserve ties, Anneith,” she had simpered as she put on her fur coat. “Imagine if if was only your father who showed up to the dinner! What would the king think of our manners then?”

Anneith had been too busy vomiting to hear Malvolia leave. All of a sudden, she was alone.

As a little girl, she had been afraid of the dark. She was, still. She tried to light some candles to stop the sapping of her power to support the light orbs, but the flickering looked like monsters’ shadows on the walls. She tried to turn on the faucet to get more water, but the sound of water drops hitting the bottom of the pot sounded like hail on the roof, an assault from all sides. All she could do was empty the basins as best as she could in the fire, and climb into bed.

Anneith shivered, even under the thick blankets, even in the warmth of the Astrea autumn. She had always been weak. In fact, it was one of the things her father liked to complain to her mother about, how a son would have never been so frail. But it had never resulted in her being confined to the bed like this.

She supposed that this was what weddings did to people.

The smell of vomit was thick in the air, and she wanted to vomit from it. Again. Oh, how the cycle of pain continued.

“One, two, three,” she muttered to herself, forcing herself out of the bed on three. Tucking her jacket around her, she pushed open the door to the cabin and gulped in the fresh air. A shiver ran up her spine, and her knees collapsed underneath her. Anneith made a last-ditch effort to grab onto the doorframe, breathing heavily as she pulled herself back onto her feet.

She stood outside the cabin for a little while, staring into the darkness, but never extinguishing the light from within the house. She would have closed her eyes, too, if she didn’t feel so ridiculously unsafe.

“Get _on_ with it.”

Her head snapped towards the voice, grip tightening on her coat in a move of faux safety.

A whimper sounded somewhere behind her—behind the house. She pressed herself against the wall, slowly creeping towards the sound.

“I’m trying,” replied a male voice. “Don’t push.”

“You’re ridiculous,” the first female voice replied.

There was a crack, and a scream. Anneith shuddered, her legs going weak underneath her.

“Be quiet,” snapped the male. Another crack, and a muffled sob.

“Stop playing with your food.”

Anneith could barely breathe as she came to the edge of the wall.

She nearly choked as she peeked her head around the corner.

“Do _you_ want to take over, then?” Oleandus scowled. A long leathery whip was in his grasp.

“Gladly.” But Ravana didn’t take the whip. Instead, she drew a long blade—a charcoal-colored sickle with a ghastly silver blade.

The woman between them whimpered, her scarlet hair matted with sweat and blood. Anneith swallowed at the sight of the lashes on her exposed back, raw and ugly.

Ravana knelt beside the woman. And smiled. “Don’t be afraid,” she said soothingly.

Anneith nearly missed the flash of silver that preceded the thump of the woman’s head as it hit the ground and rolled.

She clasped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from crying out.

“You’re too impatient,” Oleandus said, nearly pouting.

“And you’re too patient,” shot back his sister. “Father’s dinner is almost over. If I hadn’t gotten here, you would have dragged on much longer.” Ravana nodded towards the—what was left of—the body. “Take care of this.”

Oleandus scowled, but began to drag the body away.

In her direction.

Anneith panicked.

She couldn’t run, they would hear her footfalls. She couldn’t make herself apparent to them, she—

—what would they would do to her?

But if she winnowed . . .

They were powerful enough to feel it. But what choice did she have?

Anneith was already sick to her stomach from whatever mystery illness she had, and now this. But she summoned what little strength she had, and squeezed herself through a fold in the universe.

She didn’t end up where she thought she would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	20. Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)
> 
> *this chapter is officially changing the rating from T to E. Even though the E content is terrible (don't get your hopes up, folks. This chapter has enough em dashes to rival SJM herself.)

She didn't know how she knew, only that she was here now, had bent time and space to her control. Winnowing, she thought dully, as the word came to mind. Not a foreign word, but . . . lost.

As if she had lost some part of herself when—

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block the sight of the mystery female’s bloodied neck and head. Rolling limp on the ground. Oleandus’s pout, not at the body, but at the command to do nothing. By Ravana.

But she had escaped. Summoned the last of her magic just to be . . . here.

The rain came down hard on her body, her clothes sticking to herself. Her shoes sank into the wet mud. She tilted her head back for a moment, closing her eyes and letting the large drops splash and slather her face. She could barely breathe through the onslaught.

"Anneith?"

Her eyes snapped open.

Hellas's hands came up to grasp at her shoulders.

 _Hellas._ Of all the people, of all of the beings—

"What are you doing here? Goddess, Anneith—I—" he stopped short, and instead wrapped both arms around her. His shirt was as stuck to his body as her dress and jacket were, but the warmth of his chest was enough. "Let's get you inside," he muttered, hurrying them towards a tent in the distance.

 

~*~

 

The inside of the tent was warm, and the reason was apparent when she caught sight of the fire roaring the hearth. She didn't question it. A small table, a bed, a pile of books—it felt more like home than she had ever been in months.

She started as a blanket was draped over her shoulders. Hellas came into view again, his brow knit. "Anneith," he said gently. "Why—"

She didn't think. Not as she moved her hands to his neck, not as she pressed her lips to his. She felt him jolt, as if he'd been struck by lightning, and something inside her twisted, _you've made a mistake . . ._

. . . before he returned the kiss with such fervor that left her breathless, hands sliding up her arms to cup her cheeks, the closeness of him making her dizzy and delighted. She couldn't help the desperation that crept into her actions—her fingers clenching at the nape of his neck, the insistence in the press of her lips—something that he surely noticed. Or perhaps he had noticed the tears that had begun to slide down her face.

He pulled away, fingers still resting gently on her cheeks. "Anneith," he whispered. Reverent.

She looked away from him, suddenly aware of what she was doing. Which was . . . she didn’t know. Didn’t know why her instincts had brought her here, and not back into her family’s cabin. Didn’t know why she was crying. Didn’t know why it felt like the universe had given her a second chance—a second chance. To do what?

“Anneith,” he said gently.

“How did you get out?” She interrupted. Still not looking at him. Still trying to keep the tears out of her voice.

She felt him inhale. “I—” Hellas shook his head. “I escaped. There were . . . too many of them to fight off. I tried to take as many books as I could. The wards, they . . . they’re irreparable.”

She pictured the beautiful library, in ruins. The dome, cracked and gone, like a shattered eggshell. The towers, fallen on their side. The books, up in flames or torn or whatever they had—

“Anneith, why are you here?” She felt him tilt her face up to meet his eyes, hands on her cheeks.

She tried to turn away, but he held her firm. “I—it was a mistake, to be honest. Winnowed a little too far.”

His eyes assessed her, and a hint of a smile spread across his lips. “That’s not the truth,” he said softly.

 _He wouldn’t try to read my thoughts, would he?_ A voice inside her reminded. In panic, Anneith slammed up her walls.

Hellas flinched.

She shook her head insistently. “It—it was a mistake, Hellas. That’s all it was.”

“Was it?” The god asked.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she leaned up and brought his lips to hers, cutting him off. This time, it felt . . . different. As her hands began to thread into his hair, and his hands into hers. As the blanket slipped off of her shoulders, and the soft weight of Hellas’s body against hers lowered her down to the bed. As Hellas slid his hands to her back, and she felt his fingers run over the maze of lacing—

—she pulled away.

And she . . .

At her heart, Anneith was calculating. She was kind, she was gentle, she was compassionate; but beneath it all, she was calculating. And this was no exception. So she kissed him again, hungry and desperate, hands roaming his chest.

If she was a neophyte at kissing, she was even worse at this. Whatever _this_ was.

Hellas broke away. A flame of embarrassment spurted to life inside her, and she nearly turned away. But “Are you sure?” was all the god breathed out, forehead pressed to hers, words fluttering over her lips. “Anneith—”

“—I’m sure.”

“Have—have you ever done this before?”

It was no use lying. “No.”

Hellas inhaled slightly, and she despaired over the single syllable breath. But all he said was, “Don’t be afraid.”

He kissed her again, and this time they didn’t break away. He guided her fingers to his shirt. Anneith fumbled with the buttons, her fingers clawing at his chest. At last, the shirt slipped off. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before. But when she last had, he had been bloodied and weak on a couch. Now . . . now she hesitated to run her fingers along the slim but corded muscle, feeling almost sacrilegious as she did.

“May I?” Hellas mumbled, fingers brushing over the lacing of her dress again.

She nodded mutely. His fingers began to deftly untie the ribbons, her breath catching as she felt his hands on her bare skin, warm and smooth. Hellas worked the dress off of her shoulders. Then her hips. Then her legs, until it was on the floor, discarded. Until she was naked save for the binding around her breasts and her underwear.

Anneith wanted to reach for her dress. To cover up what she was sure was an inferior body to whoever had come before her (because surely, there were others). But the god caught her fingers, pressing them to his lips. “Do you trust me?”

No. The answer was no. It had always been no, down to the very last person she’d ever loved. Down to the very last two people she’d ever loved. Who both now lay under the forgotten rubble of an obsolete family.

“Yes.”

“Then relax.” Hellas’s fingers ran to her back again. She couldn’t help but inhale sharply as the binding fell away from her breasts, and his hands came up to cup them. And when he dipped his head and took a pebbled nipple in his mouth, between his teeth, on his tongue, she couldn’t hold back the soft moan that escaped her lips. He moved to the other breast, but not before planting a kiss on the first. Revulsion—for herself—suddenly seized. Her breasts were so small. What other parts of her body hadn’t she yet thought of that were the same, unsatisfactory and less-than?

“Beautiful.”

Her cheeks reddened.

Hellas continued his way down, down, down, until he reached the zenith of her thighs, right at the spot that she had barely dared—nay, barely had time to dare—to discover. And it occurred to Anneith (for the fiftieth time that minute) if she was in over her head for good, if perhaps she should have cleaned up before all this—

His breath was warm on her, and then— _gods._ Her fingers crushed the sheets in her surprise, her torso bowing off of the bed in desperate reflex, a cry escaping from her throat as he placed the full of his mouth on her. Hellas laughed against her at her reaction, the vibrations only serving to repeat her response.

Her muscles were starting to tighten, as was her grip on the sheets. “Hellas—”

“—shh,” he murmured, tongue still occupied with . . . her.

“Hellas, I—”

He moved his mouth downwards, and something else—his finger—came up to stroke the collection of nerves where his tongue had once been, and she was gone. Gone, gone, absolutely gone as she moaned, eyes closing—half adrift, half blissful.

And then he was there, hovering above her, hands on her cheeks. “Anneith,” he murmured. As if he was in a daze.

She opened her eyes to look at him and was treated by a soft smile lighting up his features before something else pressed between her legs. “Is this all right?”

A small nod, still stupefied from the events of mere seconds ago.

Anneith gasped as Hellas moved his fingers inside her, and even more so as his mouth once again joined the fray. Oh, this was excruciating. Much more excruciating than the last. To watch—and to feel—as Hellas brought her pleasure beyond what she had thought possible. And this time, when she climaxed, it was a whimper, not a cry—and yet she thought she saw him tremble from the small sound.

He came up to kiss her, sweet and kind. At odds with his domain, something that she was beginning to doubt he really ruled by the second. Her arms came up to rest around his neck. “Are you ready?”

She nodded.

“Anneith?”

“Hellas, I—” a deep tremor rocked him as she spoke his name. “I’m sure.”

He nodded, and she watched as he stripped his trousers off. She felt him press against her, and she started. Anneith was small. Hellas was close to, if not already, a foot taller than her. So how in the name of the Goddess would he—

She cried out as he moved into her, the sensation unlike anything she’d ever experienced. And then—pain. Anneith’s nails dug into his back—a visceral action as she whimpered.

Hellas stopped instantly, his hands coming up to cup her face. “Love,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Yes,” she eked out. “Yes, I am.” Anneith leaned up to press her lips against his, hoping her desperation wasn’t too evident. “Please, just . . . keep going.”

Hellas nodded, eyes understanding. His hips came forward once more, pushing in to the hilt. And then they were past the pain. Anneith stifled a moan as he began to thrust more insistently, and before she knew it his name had escaped her lips. _“_ _Hellas.”_

Then his lips and teeth were on her neck, and her hips bucked reflexively, taking him deeper. She finally groaned as Hellas began to hit that one spot inside her, sending sparks of ecstasy throughout her. Anneith arched up off of the bed as he began to move apace. And gods, _gods_ _,_ it was all too much— _“_ _Hellas.”_

“It’s all right, love,” he murmured. “It’s all right. Just let go. I’m here.”

Her fingers were tangled in his hair, his face in her neck, her body cushioned against the mattress when she came.

It felt almost like an eternity. An eternity, as her eyelids came down and she sagged against the blankets. As Hellas continued for a few more thrusts, and she felt him reach his own climax as he let out a low groan. As she felt Hellas breathe against her, his skin pressed against hers.

Hellas wrapped his arms around her, tucking her into his chest. She curled into him instinctively. Lips pressed against her hair in a soft kiss as he rested his cheek against hers.

Anneith was spent. Completely, utterly spent. Fatigue washed over her quickly, and her muscles began to feel lethargic as she fell into the early stages of sleep.

“I love you.”

Had she imagined it? Had she been lost to the floods of weariness, to dreams, that she’d made it all up? Or had the god really said it, had he really whispered it behind her?

Sleep claimed her before she could make up her mind.

 

~*~

 

The sun wasn’t what woke her up.

Anneith opened her eyes, sleep leaving her groggy but not impervious. Not impervious to what she needed to do. What all this had been for.

So she wriggled out of Hellas’s arms (taking a deep breath as he stirred). Collected her clothes from off the ground, dressed, and slipped out of the tent. Brightness assaulted her, but it wasn’t the cause of the unbreakable tears in her eyes. Not as she held herself up and winnowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all already KNOW that smut was terrible. Don't even pretend. Honestly, if you want to read better smut, go read my cruel prince fanfic or literally. Any. Other. Smut. Anyway, if you're reading this it means that you've either a) skipped to the end because the smut was so awful (I feel ya), or b) you actually read it. I LOVE ALL OF YOU THAT SAT THROUGH THAT AND ALSO ALL OF YOU THAT DIDN'T SIT THROUGH THAT 
> 
> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	21. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Ubel (OOH-bell)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Mantyx (man-TIX)  
> Oleandus (oh-lee-AN-dus)  
> Ravana (rah-vah-NA)

Anneith looked at herself in the mirror. And detested it. 

Her wedding gown was an elaborate, snow white affair. A sweetheart neckline exposed her clavicle and bust. Lace covered every available inch, the ends of her skirt hemmed with a delicate border. The dress fanned out on the floor behind her in a resplendent semicircle. 

She would have loved it under any other circumstance. Any other. 

Anneith resisted the urge to pick at her elaborate hairstyle, curated flowers and all. Resisted the urge to pick at one of the delicately placed pins and bring the whole thing crashing, crashing, crashing down. 

Her stomach gurgled, not for the first time that day, as she confronted the truth. That she was marrying a Valg prince. That she was leaving her farce of a family for an even bigger farce of a family. Anneith pressed a hand to her abdomen. The flowers had made it even worse, the nausea she’d already had for weeks before this. 

Anneith couldn’t help but think of the events of last week. In Hellas’s bed, his hands roaming her skin, her lips against her. His fingers and his cock inside her. It made her blush and wet at the same time, thinking of it. But the warmth quickly faded as she recalled the way she’d slipped out of his tent. And the realization that had been made that morning. That even if she wanted to be with him—that even if she believed what he had said that night, she couldn’t. She never could. 

Anneith twisted her fingers together. She would have prayed, if she hadn’t known that the gods were as helpless as they were. If she hadn’t seen children trembling on the ground, blood staining the grass scarlet. Reports from the south side of the Island spoke of the renaming of the Bay of Mare—now the Scarlet Bay due to its now-red waters, stained from the blood of immortals who had dared to fight against the Valg. 

Dared, in vain. In true, sorrowful vain. 

A gasp behind her alerted her to her mother’s presence. Malvolia’s face popped into her mirror’s view, a smile exaggerating her features. “Oh, darling, you look beautiful!” 

“Thank you.”

“Well, don’t be shy, turn around! Let your mother see you one last time as her own.”

Anneith turned around reluctantly, stifling a flinch as Malvolia poked and prodded her way around her gown. “You know what to do?”

“Yes.” 

“You know what to say at the banquet after?”

“Yes.”

Did they care, her parents? She had thought Malvolia better than Ubel, less prone to fits of violence and anger, and easier to handle. Her mother’s excitement at selling her daughter off to their enemies proved otherwise. But forget her—she had abandoned the notion of her parents loving her long ago. Did they care about the scores of their own people that Mantyx and his ilk had slaughtered? 

If she ever became anything more than Oleandus’s wife, she would find a way to make her parents pay. For all that they had done to her and more. 

The door opened, and Anneith spotted her father’s dark hair in the doorway. “It’s time.”

Malvolia clapped her hands together. “I’ll see you soon, Anneith.” The kiss she planted on her cheek could not have felt more reptilian if she tried. 

She waited until Malvolia’s sweeping dress disappeared down the hallway to take her father’s arm. And although it was he who was giving her away, it felt as if she had lost herself already. 

The small distance between her dressing room and the temple was the distance that she and her father now traversed. Anneith couldn’t remember the last time she had been this close to Ubel, close enough to feel his warmth on her bare skin. Perhaps he had never been this close. 

The path began to curve, and Anneith braced herself as they turned and came into full view of the guests. Immortals—the wealthiest ones, she guessed—lined the path towards the temple. She saw her father nod towards them, and disgust stirred up in her stomach. There were only so many reasons people of their standard attended weddings, and very few of them involved sincerity. 

At last, they ascended the steps towards the interior of the temple, and she began to feel nauseous. She hadn’t the faintest idea why they were even bothering to perform the ceremony in a temple. It wasn’t as if the Valg cared about the “quaint” traditions of their island. 

Mantyx himself, decked in a ceremonial silver military uniform, stood next to his son. Oleandus occupied the central spot in front of the officiator, an elderly, sallow male that she might have mistaken for an immortal if not for the Valg’s trademark golden eyes. At least the prince had the good sense to look bored, although she didn’t miss the way his eyes marked her, up and down. She recoiled at the thought. 

Opposite her father, next to an empty spot reserved for Anneith, was Ravana. Dazzling in the scarlet version of the silver uniform her father and brothers wore, lips painted blood red to match. The princess gave Anneith a small smile as Ubel disentangled himself from her. 

The smile didn’t reach her eyes. 

Anneith was turned towards Oleandus, and resisted the urge to look down at her feet. The officiator began, his voice droning. 

Aislin. Aengus. Caitriona. Caoimhe. Edryd . . . She let herself whisper their names in her mind. 

All of the people that she had known and cherished, their faces tattooed in her mind for the rest of her miserable life. Half of them dead, and the other half probably dead. And she . . . 

“Do you,” pontificated the male, and Anneith started. “Swear to take this female as your wife, to have and to keep, in mind, soul, and body, until the End?” 

“I do solemnly swear to take this female as my wife, to have and to keep, in mind, soul, and body until the End.”

“And do you, swear to take this male as your husband, to cherish and to obey, in mind, soul, and body, until the End?”

It was coming. 

“I do solemnly swear to take this male as my husband, to cherish and to obey, in mind, soul, and body until the End.” Every word, every breath, felt like a betrayal. 

“Then I, the officiator of this union, see no cause to object to it. I pronounce this couple to be wedded as husband and wife under the common law of our people.”

_ No cause to object to it.  _

Silence. 

Then loud clapping as Ravana cheered. “To the happy couple!” She demanded. The people around her, Valg or otherwise, all seemed to shake out of their daze to cheer alongside her. Anneith wished they hadn’t. 

She took Oleandus’s—her husband’s—arm and let herself be led to the banquet. 

 

~*~

 

Anneith thought of Parle.

She hadn’t seen the boy in weeks. Since before the engagement. And as much as she had wanted to venture out into the borders of the camp to check on him, she’d known a part of him wouldn’t have appreciated the help. 

But to see the feast in front of her . . . large game pies, grilled quail eggs with roasted potatoes, a whole pig . . . the gluttony went on and on. And to think that some didn’t even have enough food to make ends meet. 

Mantyx still sat at the head of the table, as king. Trapped between Oleandus and Ravana, with Ubel and Malvolia opposite them, Anneith felt the room as it was. Suffocatingly small. 

For the most part, her new husband didn’t seem quite so occupied with her, more focused on the feast in front of him than his new bride. No, it was his sister who took on the job of doting husband, although Anneith was least inclined to trust her to dote on quite anyone. 

“You should eat more!” Ravana admonished, her face set in a concerned expression as she espied Anneith’s empty plate, with only the grease of some potatoes available as evidence that she had, in fact, eaten something. “Believe me, these dinners go on forever and ever, and dessert is gone in half a minute!” 

She made the mistake of looking directly at Ravana. Dark eyes met golden, and her stomach gave an insistent shiver in protest. “I’m—I’m afraid I’m not feeling too well.” 

“No? Do you want something to help you relax?”

No. That was the last thing she wanted, to be drugged into submission by Ravana. The image of the mystery woman’s blood-soaked neck flashed before her eyes. “No, I—I’ll be fine.”

Ravana pursed her lips, and a bolt of fear ran through her. She knew Anneith was lying. Any person with half a brain could tell she was lying. “All right. If you say so. But—”

She was cut short by a sudden movement near the end of the table. “And now,” announced Mantyx, “a speech from my new daughter.” 

Anneith rose on shaky feet to the din of several dozen guests raising their glasses. She felt faint as she performed a cursory glance over the rest of the table, taken aback by just how many people there were. “Friends,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering. A silent curse to Ubel and Malvolia fired off inside her mind, for forcing her to spout propaganda like this. “Guests, and Your Majesty—” she inclined her head towards Mantyx, “—it is an honor to be part of my new family, as was confirmed this afternoon. There have been nothing but good tidings ever since the Island first saw the fleets of ships with scarlet-clad soldiers ascend her coasts.” Every smile felt like a sin. “And to be able to finally thank those soldiers in person—” a raised glass to the three royals “—is a blessing in and of itself. I believe that there can only be good tidings to come, especially if things continue in the extraordinary manner they have so far. Thank you.”

Quiet applause and nods from her parents. At least that was over. 

“Anneith!” Her father-in-law was most likely drunk, from the flush high on his normally-pale cheeks and boisterous speech.  _ What does he want from me now? _ “Anneith!” He nudged his son. “Don’t disappoint the family name tonight, eh?”

Anneith flushed, and her stomach seemed to agree, gurgling and crashing against the walls of her body like waves against the Cliffs. Oh, how she longed to see her beautiful home again.  _ I’m sorry I ever said you were old and stupid.  _ How she longed to return and pretend as if nothing had changed. As if she would still be able to lock herself in the library and come out for meals. As if her sister would come bounding down the hallway with some far-fetched tale of gossip and debauchery. As if Caoimhe would burst irritably into her room, demanding assistance with the vegetables. 

But . . . 

It would never be. 

Those were once-in-a-lifetime moments. She damned herself for missing them, for expecting them to last forever. For living, for squandering time to the ubiquity of other memories. No—people didn’t forget those  _ once  _ moments because they had happened once. They forgot them because that was the punishment of  _ once  _ moments. To happen, then to fade. To happen, to hurt, and then to fade, as if cauterizing the wound. 

It was the one wound she wished she could tear open once more. 

But sitting at the feast table that night, drinking champagne out of crystal glasses, dressed in finery worth more than the whole of the Island at this point, Anneith remembered one last  _ once  _ moment. 

The tent. The feel of his skin on hers, his breath mingling with hers, his lips on hers. The blankets laid over them, the clothes scattered on the floor, the last vestiges of childhood finally falling away. And even if she could never speak his name again, even if she swore to never think of that name again, she would remember. She would remember the last moment she’d had agency. The last moment she had true freedom. 

And so she left the wound open. Left it bleeding, and bleeding, and bleeding out, and in this manner she returned to that original intent, the moment she pulled away from the god’s touch and planned her way out. 

She would lay with Oleandus tonight. She would become a married woman, in title and in body. But she would never, never, yield that last part of her. Not to him, not to him only. 

 

~*~

 

As it turned out, she had more to prepare for. 

“You look lovely.”

The nightgown was a light thing, lace across the breasts and along the hem. Certainly lighter than her armor of a wedding dress. But it felt even more like chains than the gown had. 

“You look pale.” Ravana sat on her bed, now that they were back at the family cabin. Malvolia and Ubel had decided to pass more of the night with Mantyx. The feast, apparently, was not over. 

Anneith swallowed as her stomach gurgled. Now her chest had begun to tighten, and a peek in the mirror showed a gaunt girl, almost as sallow as the officiator. “I’m—I feel a little faint.”

“Oh. Well, if it’s the sight of my brother, I feel the same way.”

She hated herself. Hated herself for falling for the first female who flashed a smile her way, the first female who made witty jokes the same way the immortals she loved once had. Hated the way she even longed for Ravana’s comfort, even after . . . 

“No, I, truly—”

“—listen.” Ravana stood, taking ahold of Anneith’s elbows. “I know that fate has thrown us in your way. And that this most likely wasn’t your first intention—or who your first intention, rather. But it will be over soon. A quick twenty minutes, perhaps a half hour at most, and you’ll be done.” Anneith nodded, weakly, and Ravana seemed satisfied. “Come.”

The night air rustled her skirts as they set off. What was to be her and Oleandus’s new cabin—as a married couple—was just a short path off. Anneith felt every step closer like a gavel on her soul. “Don’t be nervous,” counseled Ravana. “It’ll only make it worse.”

And yet, perhaps it wasn’t the thought of sex with her new husband that was making her ill. As Ravana knocked on the door and gave her an encouraging smile, she clutched her arm. “Ravana, I—please, I don’t feel well, I—”

Oleandus opened the door just in time to see Anneith vomit all over the ground. 

There was a moment of silence after it, in which all parties involved froze and stared. As if it was her wedding all over again. Except this time Ravana looked too surprised and too furious to break the tension. Oleandus’s door slam took her place. 

Slowly, without a word, Anneith stood. Stood and picked herself up. Without looking at Ravana. 

Stumbled the whole way back, like a jilted bride. 

 

~*~

 

The sickness vanished overnight, and no one was happy about it. 

Ubel and Malvolia alternated shouting at her for the better part of two hours, once they had come back in the early hours of the morning. “It is a wife’s job,” Ubel had declared, face plum with restrained anger, “to satisfy her husband.” He paced closer to his daughter, so close that she nearly shrunk away. “Especially on the first night!”

“Do you know what this reflects upon us?” Seethed Malvolia, face just as red as her husband’s. “What the king and his children will think of us now?”

“That we’re good at marriage arrangements?” Anneith dared to ask.

Ubel spat, the spittle missing her by half an inch. “You,” he ranted, “are someone else’s problem now. If it was up to me, I’d have you out in the cold with the chance to never see your wretched face again. But it’s not. And you should consider yourself lucky that this is the case.”

“I don’t see the problem,” said Anneith icily. “Tonight is just as fine as yesterday was.” 

At this, both of her parents’ faces turned crimson, practically vibrating with rage. “Prince Oleandus,” hissed Oleandus, “left this morning. On a new campaign with his father. No one knows when they will return.”

_ He’s . . . he’s gone.  _

Ubel’s face color seemed to reach a breaking point, and he gave Anneith a hard shove. “Out!” He barked. Malvolia scurried to open the door. “OUT!” 

 

~*~

 

Anneith landed flat on her back. Propping herself up on her palms, she watched as the immortals ran around, shooing their children inside, carrying stocks. Briefly, she wondered if she ought to move from her parents’ front door. 

She didn’t. 

Pissing people off was a religion, and she was determined to be its most faithful acolyte. 

“Anneith!” Ravana was in front of her in an instant, staring down at her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just . . . sitting.” 

“Well, if you’re just sitting, why don’t you help me with something?”

Her heart pounded in warning, but her mouth gaily replied, “Of course.”

The princess smiled. “Follow me.” They walked through the camp, stopping only to respond to wedding well-wishers from the previous night. Each one sank their own verbal dagger into her heart. 

Ravana stopped in front of a cabin Anneith recognized as the princess’s own. “In here.”

She made it a grand total of one step before she froze. Bloody sheets and rags lined the floor and every available surface. Scarlet boot prints marked a path into the house. In the recesses of her mind, a different scene—a dark night, two powerful figures—played out. 

“Oh, I was just wondering if you could help me with all this,” Ravana said casually. “It’s quite a mess, I know, but I was . . . in a hurry.”

“Oh.” Anneith swallowed. 

“So do you think you can help me?” 

“Of—of course.” 

Ravana smiled brightly. “Let me get the washbasin. You know—” her voice echoed as she traveled to the back of the room “—usually, I’d entrust the cleaning to the servants, but I’d rather not let word get out about this.” She reappeared carrying full bins of soapy water. “I’m sure you understand.” 

“Yes. Right. Of course,” replied Anneith weakly. “Yes, I understand.” 

She didn’t dare let her mind wander as she scrubbed blood out of the crevices of the floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	22. Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Mantyx (man-TIX)  
> Oleandus (oh-lee-AN-dus)  
> Ravana (rah-vah-NA)  
> Parle (Par-L)

“So,” said Ravana conversationally. Her elbows were covered in blood. “What are you planning to do while my brother is away?”

“Oh, I . . .” Anneith’s tone was halting. “Fix up the cabin, I suppose.” She had to push down the bile that rose in her throat at the thought of her marriage cabin.

The thought had crossed her mind often: what if she hadn’t left that fateful morning? What if she had simply woken up and decided to stay? Spent the rest of the day in . . . his arms? But reality overshadowed those dreams. If she never came back, they’d come searching for her. Not even the gods themselves were safe from the Valg. And who knows what they would do to the immortals if she disappeared without a trace? Interrogation? Torture?

And what she thought he’d said, right as they drifted off to sleep . . . that she would have to deal with as well.

“That’s a good idea,” approved Ravana. She jerked her head towards Anneith’s pile of rags. “Are you done with those?”

“Oh . . . yes.”

“Great.” The princess reached over and gathered the now-clean sheets in her arms. She smiled brightly at her sister-in-law, an expression that Anneith hesitantly returned. “Well, you’re dismissed.” Anneith began to head towards the doorway, until Ravana’s voice rang out again. “Wait!”

She halted.

“Actually, I just remembered something. Can you meet me back here at midnight?”

“Midnight?”

“Yes. Well, at least you don’t have to sneak out of your parents’ home anymore, right?” Ravana gave her a friendly pat on the back. “Midnight. You and me.”

 

~*~

 

Her eyes never left the clock.

The cabin was well-furnished, with three rooms: a bathroom, a bedroom, and a living room. A large bed, evidently made for what should have happened yesterday, took up the most space. Anneith had turned away from the sight and set herself on a rabid cleaning spree throughout the home, dusting and straightening and all things in between.

 _I’ve finally become the daughter my parents always wanted,_ she mentally grumbled.

But whatever she did to pass the time, it didn’t stop her from jerking her head towards the clock every thirty seconds to check the time. As if she could stop the passing of time towards midnight. Anneith recalled the way Ravana had cheerfully ordered her to meet her, as if they were two friends going out for drinks.

Somehow, she doubted that they were going out to a pub.

Which was worse? Being Oleandus’s wife or Ravana’s sister? Anneith shuddered as she recalled that Oleandus’s absence was temporary. That he would be back, and she would have to stomach climbing underneath the covers, his fingers on her—her fingers instinctively clutched at the fabric covering her abdomen. How long, then? How long would it be before he fucked her, and then how long would it be before they questioned Anneith’s infertility? She had run, she had hidden, she had been forced into a standstill and had still found a way out. But when they found out what she’d done . . .

As if by some force, her head snapped towards the clock. No noise had emitted, no loud chime or tick. It was simply that strange effect of wishing time never passed that made it pass all the while faster.

The clock pointed midnight, and Anneith rose from her position dusting the floor. Her legs shook underneath her as she made her way out of the house, stepped out into the night, and walked the short distance to Ravana’s cabin. The camp was eerily quiet, even with Mantyx and Oleandus and some of their soldiers gone. The silence only served to make Anneith pull her coat around herself tighter.

She stifled a gulp of air as she spotted Ravana loitering in front of her cabin door. Clearly waiting for her. Anneith had counted on being able to gather herself, knock on the door, and then leave herself at Ravana’s mercy. There was no such hope.

“Ah, Anneith. There you are.”

“Why—why are we here this late?” Anneith ventured to ask.

“Follow me.” Ravana began to walk towards the thick forest surrounding the camp, the same trail that Anneith had taken with the royal siblings the first few days Ravana had arrived. “I was going to do this on my own, but I thought it was better to have an . . . assistant.” The princess slowed, looping her arm through Anneith’s. “Sorry for the late night troubles. I just didn’t want to catch the attention of the rest of the camp. Nosy immortals. But I’m sure you know that.” She nodded towards a clearing between two trees. “Through here.”

They stepped through the passage, and Anneith stifled a choke.

A young male immortal was hunched on the ground, kneeling so that his legs were tucked under him but his back was exposed. His naked back. Covered in whip lashes, ugly and red. A memory in the back of her mind struggled against her protests to remind her of an exact scenario like this.

Anneith would have grabbed onto the nearest thing in shock and fear if the nearest thing hadn’t been Ravana.

“Anneith,” said Ravana cheerfully, stepping away from her. “This,” she fisted her fingers in the male’s hair and yanked his head up. The man’s face was bloodied as well, gashes and bruises marring the otherwise handsome features. “Is a criminal.”

She blinked. “W—what?”

“He was caught stealing from the storerooms,” purred Ravana, pacing around him. An executioner in the firelight. “Trying to increase his ration.”

“Please,” moaned the male. “I just—I have a family, please, my littlest one’s sick—”

“—silence!” The male went down with a pained grunt as Ravana raised a club and cracked it against his head. She jerked her head towards Anneith, who had to force herself to stay still. “You’re going to help me.”

“H—help you do what?”

Ravana smiled. Teeth bared in an expression of pure pleasure. “Kill him.”

The man began to struggle on the ground. Anneith noticed with a sickening feeling that his limbs must have been broken, otherwise he would have risen. “No! Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”

“—shut up,” hissed the princess. “Anneith, get over here. Bring the knife.”

She trembled as she did as Ravana asked, her fingers curling around the hilt of an elegant knife that had been laid out on the ground next to them. The female took the blade from her, holding it up to the moon with a satisfied smirk. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ravana said casually, words directed towards the male. Her fingers came to grip his hair again, tilting it up. Anneith could see the reflection of his horrified expression in the silvery glint of the knife.

“You’re going to slit his throat.”

Everything seemed to freeze in that moment. Ravana’s words, the man’s whimpers, her own body. “Ravana, I—”

“—what?” Ravana laughed. “This man is a criminal, Anneith. There shouldn’t be any question on your part whether or not he deserves punishment.”

“But death—”

“—and who knows what might happen if we let him go?” Ravana interrupted. “He could easily fall back into his thieving habits, and then we’d have a supply shortage on our hands. Are you really suggesting we let our own people starve because of one man’s greed?”

“No, but—”

“—then do it.” Ravana’s golden eyes had turned fiery. “I shouldn’t have to ask twice, Anneith. I know my place. It’s time you learn yours.” She held out the knife for Anneith to take, one hand still dragging the male’s face up.

The knife was unnatural in her hand. She had barely held weapons before, being deemed unfit the moment she’d been born as a female. Anneith wanted to sob, wanted to cry and scream. But as Ravana fixed her stare on her, as she advanced towards the male, knife in her dominant hand . . .

“Please,” the man whispered, tears streaking down his red raw face. “Please.”

Tears began to fill her own eyes. Her hand shook. Ravana tapped her foot impatiently. “ _Now_ , Anneith.”

No. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t raise her hand, her arm, the knife, which had suddenly turned leaden in her grip. She couldn’t drag the blade along this mystery man’s throat, feel the blood as it splattered onto her clothes, onto her hands. _Please, please, please,_ begging for not only him, but for her.

But no one came and no one was about to come.

The man was sobbing now, held up only by Ravana’s grip. Anneith’s fingers shook.

_Crack._

The man jerked away from Ravana, sagging to the ground. His eyes wide with shock, his body limp and still. The knife was still in her hand.

“What the hell did you do?” Shouted Ravana. She stormed over to Anneith, her hands coming up to grip her shoulders, painfully. “What did you do?”

“I—I—” Anneith struggled for an answer. In the back of her mind, she knew what she’d done. But Ravana surely would not see it the same way.

Ravana shook her head, fury outlining her beautiful features. “Never mind,” she spat. A hard shove nearly sent Anneith to the ground. “Go. I have no use for you anymore.”

The knife slipped from her hand back onto the ground as Anneith took the princess at her word and fled. It was only when she arrived back at her cursed cabin, seated upon a futon in the living room, that she allowed herself to understand what she’d done.

_I snapped his neck._

_I killed him._

Some thought deep inside her had reasoned, _snapping his neck is a better fate than slitting his throat._

It didn’t change the fact that she’d killed him. That she’d been responsible for the look on his face, the same expression that had befallen the woman from days ago. Except this time, she was responsible.

 

~*~

 

She’d been sequestered in her cabin for days. No one had come to knock on her door, to try and talk to her. Not Ravana, not her parents, not anyone.

Alcohol. That was her one request. She’d seen the village drunks in pubs back home, numb to all aspects of the world. The haunted, deadened look in their eyes, softened by the haze of drink. Not gone, but complacent. Vaguely, she remembered the light feeling of champagne, how it had made her bold and confident.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat, as bubbly as champagne. And suddenly she was crying, and laughing, and screaming, and gods, was it all in her head? Her entire body felt as if it was on fire, as if she’d been caught in flames. She welcomed it, if only to feel _something._ She hadn’t slept in days; everytime she closed her eyes, images mixed together. The woman’s head, rolling to land at her feet. The man’s terrified eyes, his cries for mercy. Mercy which she had not given.

A fist came up only to slam onto the floor. She lay on the floor, cheek pressed against the cold hardwood. The idea was laughable. In fact, she let loose a delirious giggle that turned into a raving chuckle, that turned into an unhinged fit of laughter that only stopped when she choked. Laughter turned into coughing, and she convulsed on the ground as her body worked itself into submission. _Mercy._

Through her haze, she’d missed the pounding on her door, incessant until a voice called out, “Anneith!”

She lifted her head, almost unsure if she should respond. It took her a few moments to remember that was her name. _Anneith._

Unsteadily, she picked herself up, her limbs limp and wobbly.

“There you are—” Malvolia stopped short as she took in her daughter’s state. “My gods, what happened to you?”

Anneith was silent.

“Well? Answer me!”

She was silent.

“Anneith.” Malvolia looked as if she was about to throw a tantrum. “Answer your mother.”

“I’m—I’m sick,” she said weakly, finding her voice. “I’m sick.”

“Oh, you’re always sick,” grumbled Malvolia. “I’m here as a courtesy.”

“For what?”

Malvolia smiled, and Anneith hated it. Hated that it wasn’t the normally false, simpering smile

she went for. Hated that it was genuine, hated that her mother was happy. Hated, hated, hated.

“We’re going back. We’re going home.”

 

 

~*~

 

It was as if she’d stepped into a dream.

The Leander stood as it always had, large and imposing, the sole home this far down the Cliffs. But more than that, it was whole. It was whole, as if nothing had happened. As if the Valg had never come. 

But they had, and Anneith was living in a cruel dream. A dream where she was home, but she had lost her sister and her friends to be here. A dream where she could be peaceful again, and yet she could not.

Ubel had already run off, no doubt to secure his lordship over Leander once more. Leaving Malvolia and Anneith at the front door, where they were greeted by—

“—Prince Oleandus!” Simpered Malvolia. “What a lovely surprise!”

Oleandus performed a cursory bow. “Lady Malvolia.” He fixed his pale gold eyes on Anneith. “Anneith.”

She curtsied, heart beating at the sight of her husband. 

“So how soon can we move back into our old rooms?” Malvolia asked as they followed Oleandus down the hall. Indeed, it was as if the manor had never changed. Had never been ruined. As if Anneith and her mother had stepped back in time. 

She wondered why they had done it at all. Fixed up the Leander, and all for what? 

Oleandus cleared his throat. “Frankly, the Leander is our base of operations right now. Your rooms are clear, but living space might be tight. Soldiers are going to be moving in and out every day.”

Malvolia looked faintly ill at the thought of her home being run by foot soldiers, but she nodded. “Of course, of course.” 

 

~*~

 

Anneith looked around her room. 

It seemed so big, compared to the cabins in the camp. She wondered how she’d ever taken this for granted, how she’d ever thought this was normal. Her eyes fell upon the bed in the middle of the room. Her bed had never been this big. Which meant . . .

A knock at the door interrupted her. Before she could fully form the thought in her mind. 

The person standing on the other side of the door, looking bored, was not who she had expected. 

“Parle?” 

Parle’s head snapped up, and he nearly dropped the boxes in his arms. “Anneith!”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m a . . .” the boy seemed to be struggling for an answer. “I’m a servant,” he said finally.

She blinked. “But how did you get here?” 

“At the last second, they were asking for volunteers to ‘help’ out here. No one else wanted to go, so here I am.” He shrugged. “It’s not as if I had any reason to stay in the camp. Not anymore.” 

_ Not anymore.  _

“I—I’m sorry,” she offered quietly. For a moment they regarded each other, and Anneith wondered if he felt the same connection. Two souls, paths crossed by chance. Strengthened by loss. 

“Don’t be,” he said finally. “I can’t . . . thank you enough for helping out. For getting supplies for me. It made my mother’s last days . . . much better than they would have been.”

_ Thank you.  _

It seemed obscene to hear. That she had helped one family and ruined another. A strike of pain attacked her mind, and she stifled a cry of pain as the man’s dead eyes stared at her. As the sound of him thudding to the ground echoed in her ears, as his body sagged to the ground, as—

“Anneith?” 

She snapped back to reality as Parle’s concerned glance fell upon her. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Yes! Of course, of course, I just . . . I’ve been feeling faint lately.” It wasn’t wholly a lie. “Sorry, did you come to me for something?” It was then that she noticed the bags behind him. 

Filled with weapons and clothing. Male clothing. 

“This are . . . Prince Oleandus’s belongings,” Parle said. Slowly. Apologetically. 

“Oh.” Anneith had to force herself to collect. “Of course. Just set them down in here, I suppose.”

They worked in silence to move Oleandus’s things inside. 

“I’m sorry.”

She lifted her head to meet Parle’s gray eyes. Anneith noticed the way he held himself, so different from when she had first met him. There was still anger there, but it had almost been abandoned in favor of . . . she couldn’t put her finger on it. But it was almost like looking at a new person. “It’s alright.”

“It’s really not.”

Anneith laughed, although the sound was hollow even to her ears. “There’s . . . nothing that can be done about it.”

Parle straightened, taller than Anneith by nearly a head. “You helped me,” he said haltingly, in a manner that made it clear to her that he did not express gratitude often. “My mother was sick and dying. We had no shelter, and almost no food. She would have died in pain. In the cold. But you helped me. You helped me make her comfortable. You helped me help her. And for that, I am indebted to you.” Anneith opened her mouth to speak, but Parle held up a hand. “Please. Let me. Anneith . . . if you ever need anything . . . you can call upon me. I swear to you. Whatever you need.” 

“Parle, you don’t need to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” The boy shook his head. “Anneith—”

Their heads jerked to the ajar door as voices began echoing down the hallway. Their gazes met, and panic spurted to life inside her. If they were caught together, alone, even with Parle’s age, who knows what rumors would—

“There!” Anneith hissed, pushing Parle further into the room. “There’s a trapdoor there, do you see it?” 

“I think so?”

“Take it. It’ll take you to the opposite end of the hallway.” To . . . to Caitriona’s room. Anneith swallowed. The room had been destroyed, but the tunnel should have stayed intact. 

Parle didn’t look convinced. “A secret passageway? Seriously?”

The voices edged closer, and Anneith growled, “Go!” 

She heard the opening and closing of the trapdoor as Parle jumped down. Anneith breathed a sigh of relief as the voices in the hallway turned out to be mere infantrymen, who inclined their heads towards her respectfully as they passed by. She supposed that being Oleandus’s wife meant that she ought to be regarded at a higher position. 

She didn’t enjoy it. 

Anneith closed the door carefully, listening for the soft click of the jamb against the doorframe. She closed her eyes as she sank down against the doorframe. 

_ His eyes. Dead to the world.  _

_ Her head. On the ground.  _

_ Blood.  _

_ On your hands.  _

Her eyes flew open again as her breathing became labored. She watched as her fingers shook, as her mind became hazy with memory. With memory after memory after memory. Of not only . . . the male and the female, but—

Caitriona. Caoimhe. And Aislin. And Edryd. And Aengus. 

Anneith’s fingers scrabbled for a grip on the floor, only to slide against the smooth wood. She squeezed her eyes shut, only to let out a whimper of pain as their faces flashed again. The man. The woman. Her sister. Her friends. 

And somehow, in the midst of it, her. She, who was still alive. She, who was married to the very male who had stolen their home. Who had killed the people she’d loved. 

So wasn’t it her fault? Didn’t her blame extend beyond the mystery male, beyond the mystery female? 

Anneith could only feel tears trickling down her cheeks. Not daring to rub her eyes for fear of seeing those faces, those faces that cursed her and taunted her. 

 

~*~

 

She had collected herself enough to dine with her mother and father for supper. Thankfully, Ubel and Malvolia seemed too caught up in politics and complaints about the manor to bother with her. Ubel wanted the camp immortals to give him more power; Malvolia hated the soldiers traipsing in her home. Ubel thought that the people who worked under him were incompetent; Malvolia had noticed dirt on the floor and was bent on talking to Mantyx about it. 

The lack of servants had apparently been hard on both of them, despite the fact that all three of them had lived in a camp with barely any luxuries for months. Malvolia went to raise her arms several times to call for a maid, only to set it down when she realized that there were none. Ubel was unhappy with the way his potatoes had been cooked and opened his mouth to call for the chef, only to shut it when he remembered that it had been made by an immortal from the camp. Someone who was not employed under them and had no reason to listen to any complaint. 

Anneith had eaten her meal silently. 

Now, she looked at herself in the mirror for the umpteenth time, turning to one side and then another. She looked gaunt from all angles, and she’d lost the semi-healthy glow she’d once had. Anneith had always been skinny, and weak, but now . . . frail was the only way to describe it. Her cheeks had hollowed out, and she could count each bone on her sternum. The bags under her eyes had become dark, almost bruise-like in their severity. 

A glance to the bed had her freezing. It was her room. It had been, for years. But it was not her bed. No, it was larger. Big enough for two people. 

A bed, to replace the one that hadn’t been used back at the camp. 

A bed, to finally consummate the marriage. 

She rubbed at the goosebumps that rose on her arms, searching for some vestige of warmth. Anything to keep her calm. 

“Leave me, Ravana,” a voice beyond the door had her panicking. Oleandus’s voice. 

“We still have matters to discuss, brother,” replied the princess, her distinct, soft voice sharp in its intensity. 

Anneith crept towards the door, ignoring her pounding heart. Years of sleeping here had given her the knowledge of which floorboards creaked, and and which would cover her. 

“It can wait.” Adrenaline, alarmed and imminent, coursed through her as she watched the doorknob turn. 

“No, it can’t!” The doorknob snapped back into it regular position as Ravana must have yanked Oleandus’s hand back. Anneith had to press her ear closer to the door as they lowered their voices. “Oleandus, you know how much this last campaign is worth.”

“You don’t need to tell me, I’ve seen the risk. You’re not even fighting.”

“Maybe not,” Ravana replied, and a dangerous rage had crept into her tone. “But we should rethink our strategy.”

“We? Did Father say you could come?”

“Father,” Ravana snapped, “cannot even see where this battle will go wrong. Where our troops will finally fall. We underestimated this island’s gods once. They are weak now, but taking that as it is will be our downfall.”

A pause, and then a laugh that sent shivers down Anneith’s spine. “Feeling nervous, are we, dear sister? Perhaps you’re afraid of seeing him again?”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” snarled Ravana. “Fine. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” 

“Don’t worry, Ravana. The mountains and the coast are as good as ours.” 

_ The mountains and the coast? _

She flew across the floor as she saw the doorknob turn again, landing roughly in bed and tugging the covers over her head. Her heart pounded as Oleandus’s footsteps sounded closer and closer. Would he notice her stiffness? Would he notice that she was awake? Would he demand that she reveal herself? Would he perhaps tear the covers off and take her, just like that—

A grunt of annoyance startled her, but she forced herself to relax. Anneith felt the bed dip underneath her as Oleandus climbed in. Breaths came haltingly as he shifted his position. 

But nothing happened. No touching, no warmth near Anneith’ skin or through her thin nightgown. 

Anneith still slept fitfully that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	23. Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Malvolia (Mal-VOLE-ee-ah)  
> Mantyx (man-TIX)  
> Oleandus (oh-lee-AN-dus)  
> Ravana (rah-vah-NA)  
> Parle (Par-L)
> 
> Here it is, guys. The final chapter of part I!

They were planning something. She knew it.

Anneith knew it from the way she rarely saw Oleandus, even in bed. She knew it from the way fewer and fewer soldiers seemed to pass into the Leander, until only the top generals were left. She knew it from the way the house fell silent, so quiet that she could hear the crickets at night.

But for now . . .

Anneith swallowed as she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Little scarlet drops dotted her cheeks. She looked down. Red was splattered on her hands, worked so finely into the lines of her palms that she wasn’t sure she would ever get it out.

“Good,” Ravana had said. Good, as if she hadn’t just made Anneith slash and cut through half a dozen immortals with her cursed knife.

Her eyes were red-rimmed. No longer from sobbing, but from being awake. From being chased through the darkness by the eyes of those she’d killed. Their voices sounded in her mind, high and low, clear and raspy, amalgamating into something resembling verbal sludge. _You, you, you,_ they all seemed to scream. _You did this._

Anneith’s fingers shook as she ran them under the water. Today there had been six. The previous day, four. And tomorrow?

She stripped off her dress and stepped into the tub. The water had long gone lukewarm. Voices seemed to float up to her as she submerged herself.

 _Come with us,_ they seemed to whisper. She saw the faces of her victims. _Come with us. Don’t you want to come with us?_

Her throat went dry. She lifted her hand out of the water.

It was redder than it had been before.

Anneith saw her reflection in the water.

Her entire face was scarlet.

A scream loosed itself from her throat, and she nearly cracked her head open on the floor as she struggled to get out of the bath. Her nails scraped against her cheeks, but they came away with nothing. But no, no, there must have been something. She had seen it . . .

Pain slashed down her face as her nails drew blood. So there was—

Anneith caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sink.

There was no blood on her face. No blood soaking her face, save for the slash she’d inflicted. She stumbled forward to the bath once more. To make sure that it was true.

Nothing. Nothing except for what she’d done to herself.

Her stomach lurched, and she spilled the contents of her lunch on the tile.

 

~*~

 

Anneith overheard them.

Stumbling down the hallway, face barely healed from the scratching, shawl tucked around her shoulders, she’d frozen at the sound of voices. Whispering from within the library. She leaned closer.

“Their locations are here, here, and here,” Mantyx’s low voice rumbled from within the room, followed by tapping. “We have reason to believe that they been camped there for some time.”

“Waiting for us?” Ravana’s voice was silky, and Anneith’s stomach lurched at the sound.

“More or less.”

“So we surround them.” Oleandus spoke in a low growl. “Siege them. They can’t have many supplies.”

“No. We siege them, we burden our own supplies.”

“We have enough.”

“We don’t.”

“Oh, must you—”

“—silence!” Mantyx’s voice broke through the argument. “Thank you for your input, Oleandus, but Ravana is right. Our supplies are steady, but not nearly as high in quantity as they should be.” A shuffling sound. “So we attack.” More tapping. “Our troops are stationed here, here, and here. I’m sending out the last groups in the next few days. We’ll have what little immortals are left defeated in minutes.”

“There aren’t just immortals there,” Ravana cut in sharply. Anneith recognized Oleandus’s rough laugh.

“So you are afraid, then, sister.”

“Shut it—”

“—quiet!” Mantyx’s voice had turned low, and deadly. The power that seeped underneath the door and through the spaces between the door and its frame made her tremble. “That is quite enough from both of you. Ravana, you’re not going.”

“What?”

“You’re not going.”

“I was the one who found the locations of our enemies for you. I was the one who ran the camp in your absence. And you’re not even going to let me on a fucking field trip? On something that we’ve done a million times and over?”

“Ravana, dear, while I appreciate the effort you’ve put into our cause, I’m sure you understand the . . . scrutiny surrounding any involvement you may have.”

“From who?” The soft rage rivaled Mantyx’s. “Tell me, and I will make sure there are no qualms. None.”

“You’re not going, Ravana. And that is final. Do stop acting like a petulant child.” The king’s tone was bored. “Now, Oleandus, let us go gather the troops. We have a task to accomplish.”

Anneith ducked away from the door, still feeling too weak to winnow. But this was her home. Had been her home. So she dove behind a blind spot, in the narrow space between a cabinet and a wall. And watched as Mantyx and Oleandus left, discussing something in low voices. Ravana came out shortly after, her face locked in a neutral expression as she closed the doors behind her.

The princess’s eyes snapped towards where Anneith was hiding. Gold gaze narrowed.

Her breathing became labored as she froze. Did Ravana see her? Oh gods oh gods oh gods—

But the princess merely turned her face away and walked off. As if she’d seen nothing. Anneith let herself breathe a sigh of relief.

Her eyes fell upon the library doors again. And then back to her hands. Still shaking. Specks of red were still caught in the veins. She forced herself to look away.

She scampered across the floor, quietly opening the library door and slipping inside. Anneith blinked as she took in the sight. Of the library, of her library.

But no. Not quite. It wasn’t her library anymore. Not with the papers scattered across the tables, or the weapons in the corner, or the heavy smell of metal in the air. No, it wasn’t hers. Not anymore.

Anneith trembled as she approached the map, laid out innocently on the center table. Red and blue marks dotted it, although her eyes were drawn to the left side. To the Mountains of Melisande and the Coast of Abelard.

_The mountains and the coast are as good as ours._

It was the only area where the blue outnumbered the red. Where her people undoubtedly were.

She needed someone to see this map. Someone, anyone. Anneith looked around frantically. She couldn’t take the map itself; they’d notice in a split second. She spotted a basket of rolled up parchment in the corner of the room. Running, she snatched a roll out of the container and ran back. Dipping her pen into a black inkwell, she drew a rough sketch of the island. Blue ink was used to denote the immortals’ positons. Another pen was promptly dipped into red ink, and slashed X’s were copied from the original map.

Finally, a shaky signature.

_-A._

She quickly rolled up the map, although her mind halted her. How . . . how? It wasn’t as if she had an exact location for where the forces were. Only a rough approximation. And it wasn’t as if they’d ever allow her to go . . .

 _Parle_ . The name flashed across her mind in an instant. _I swear to you. Whatever you need._

She nearly tripped over her own feet in haste. If the Valg were set to leave in a few days, she didn’t have much time.

It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t for redemption. The blood of innocents was on her hands. Even by the most lenient of judgements, she’d surely land herself in the swamps of the Underworld. No, it was for . . . hope.

Hope. That elusive word, the one term that she had never let herself entertain. Not as a child, not as a teenager, and certainly not as a woman. Hope, for sweet Nadya. Hope, for Parle. And hope, if she dared . . .

“Anneith?”

She nearly cried as she saw Parle analyzing her, a duster in one hand. “What are you doing?”

“I need your help,” she whispered.

The duster was forgotten as it clattered to the floor, muffled by the carpeting. “What do you need?”

Anneith held the rolled parchment out to the boy. “You don’t have to do this.”

Parle’s eyes narrowed. “Is this about . . . our people?”

She nodded. Slowly.

“Then I have to do it.”

Quickly, she outlined what the Valg were planning to do. She watched as Parle’s jaw set in reaction. “I need you to get this map to our forces.”

He gripped the parchment in his hand. “And you don’t know exactly where they are?”

“No.”

“Smashing. Is there anyone I should hand it off to, or should I just find any random foot soldier and trust them?”

“I . . .” Anneith hesitated. “Give it to—to Lord Hellas.” His face flashed in her mind. She pushed it down.

Parle blinked. “I’m sorry, what? Someone decided to name their child Hellas? Tempting fate, aren’t they?”

“No, it’s . . .” Anneith lowered her voice, her tone shaking. “The gods are here. They’re among us. They’re . . . fighting alongside us.” She watched as what she was saying slowly dawned over him.

“You want me,” said Parle slowly. “To give this to Hellas. As in Hellas, the god of death?”

“Y—yes.”

“How do you even—?”

“Please, Parle, we don’t have enough time.” Anneith looked down the hallway surreptitiously. “If you take a horse from the stables and tell them that you’re going to town on an errand, it shouldn’t be too much trouble. Say—say that the lady of the house ran out of honey for her tea or something.”

The boy still looked hesitant, although she was more than half sure it was because he thought she was crazy for claiming to see gods and not because of the task itself. “Alright.” Parle tucked the map into his jacket, already beginning to move away from her.

“Wait,” she called suddenly. “Parle.”

The boy turned around and in that instant he looked very young and very old at the same time to her. The same smooth skin was creased at the same time, and the soft core that all children seemed to have had steeled. And suddenly, she knew why he was no longer the angry boy she’d met. “Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

Parle nodded.

She watched as he disappeared down the end of the hallway, his footsteps echoing down the staircase. It was the hard part now.

She shuddered to think of what would happen if the message didn’t reach their forces in time. Shuddered as she imagined Mantyx and his forces tearing through their defenses. Annihilating them once and for all. Anneith reached up to rub her arms, suddenly cold.

Her body recognized the mistake before her mind did.

Her shawl. It must have been left in the library. In the library, where as far as anyone knew, she hadn’t been for months. Oh gods oh gods oh gods.

Anneith’s feet carried her all the way back to the library, the same silent scampering that had served her well the first time. But as she slipped into the library again, her eyes scanning the room frantically, she saw no trace of her shawl.

‘Looking for this?”

Anneith froze.

Ravana stepped out of the shadows, her beautiful face set in a hard expression. In her grip hung Anneith’s shawl. “—I was waiting to see how long you’d last.”

She didn’t dare move as she felt the princess move closer.

“Well then,” Ravana taunted. “Couldn’t keep yourself in line? Couldn’t deal with being my brother’s obedient little plaything? Or was it my little games that broke you at last?”

She couldn’t breathe. Her throat was closing up. The room spun wildly.

She could hear Ravana walking, pacing, her heels clacking on the stone floor. “I’ll admit, you covered yourself longer than any of us predicted.” Things were being flipped through now, then thrown to the ground. Anneith fought back a shiver. “Oleandus was convinced that you were being docile, all those times you didn’t fight him. Males,” she scoffed. “Simple-minded beings, aren’t they?”

Her chest was heaving with phantom pain, and slowly, she felt herself being brought to her feet. Whether it was of her own volition or through Ravana’s dark magic, she could no longer tell. Standing, shaking, on her feet, her eyes met her sister-in-law’s pitch ones. Ravana gave a wicked smile. “Isn’t that so much better?”

Anneith was rooted to the spot as Ravana advanced towards her, like a lynx towards its prey. “Now, about that map.” The princess, taller than her, looked down at Anneith, reaching a long finger out to stroke her cheek. Anneith flinched. “Oh, don’t act so clueless. The pens, shifted from their usual position? The inkwells, open when I had clearly covered them before I left? Tell me where you left your lovely copy,” Ravana crooned.

“No.”

A carefully arched eyebrow raised. “No?” Anneith watched as the princess paced around the room. “You know, Anneith,” mused Ravana. “The first time we met wasn’t after your engagement, oh no. We met quite a bit earlier than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me if you recognize this.” Ravana cleared her throat.

It was a different voice that followed.. Softer. Lighter. “I know that your mother can be demanding,” Ravana said, her voice saccharine. “Just let me know if you need anything. We’re practically right next door, after all.” The ending was punctuated with a giggle.

The words felt like a punch in the gut. “No.”

“No?” Ravana’s beautiful lips were pulled into a smile. “You would have never imagined the sweet Lady Glain to be a princess? Or was it that you never imagined her to be a Valg?”

“That—that’s not possible.”

“Oh, but my dear, it _is_ possible. Find the right host, and we’ll thrive.” Ravana shook her head. “Glain was dead for weeks before she hosted me.”

Anneith could barely breathe. “Why?”

“Why?” Ravana mused. “Well, we’ve known about you for a very long time, Anneith. Known about what you are capable of. Being Glain was an added bonus. To see who you are.”

“I don’t—I don’t understand.”

A shadow crossed Ravana’s face, and she snarled, “Enough of that. Tell me where the map is.” The princess stepped closer. “And you might escape with a little bit of your soul left.

“You’ll kill me anyway.”

Ravana’s lips stretched wide, and a loud laugh expelled itself from deep inside her chest. “Maybe you aren’t quite as dense as I thought you were! Very well, very well. How about this?” She stepped away from Anneith, instead pacing in circles around her. “Give me the map, and I’ll make this quick.”

“No.” _Please, Parle, please, do as I asked. Please, please_ —

Ravana snapped. Faster than Anneith could have anticipated, a Valg blade was at her throat. Its sharp stone gleamed in the light. “Where. Is. The. Map?”

Anneith felt her heart palpitating, but her mind was still racing ahead. Her eyes darted anywhere, everywhere. They landed on the bucket of rolled up parchment. Ravana’s eyes followed hers, and she smirked. Throwing Anneith back, she stalked towards the rolls. “Oh, my sweet sister,” she crooned, trailing her finger along the creases. “How little you learn.”

Anneith’s breath caught as she watched Ravana thumb through the rolls.

Her smile faded.

The lady felt her body tense up, as if preparing—

“You bitch,” Ravana hissed, and Anneith felt her body topple over. There was a loud crack as she felt onto the stones, but she didn’t have time to scream as Ravana threw herself on top of her, punching and pummeling.

“You thought you could get away with it? It doesn’t matter, the map,” Her pitch was going up, octave by octave, second by second. “We know the immortals’ positions anyway. You thought we wouldn’t? You thought that you could play heroine for once in your worthless, pitiful life? You thought that you would be able to, for once, maybe earn the attention you so craved? Well, now,” Ravana breathed deeply, and Anneith took the chance to try and throw her off. But she noticed, and pushed her palms down onto her neck, cutting off her air. Anneith coughed and wheezed as Ravana’s dark eyes bore into her. “Now, no one will ever know about you. But don’t worry—” The princess leaned down, so that her lips were next to Anneith’s ear. “—I’ll send your regards to Hellas.”

Her windpipe was suddenly free from Ravana’s grasp, and Anneith gulped in the air greedily, heart racing.

She never saw the blade slice into her neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	24. Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cathal (Cah-hal)  
> Ravana (rah-vah-NA)
> 
> Here's the first chapter of Part II!

####  **_Wherever we turn in this tempest of roses,_ **

####  **_thorns brighten the night, and the thunder_ **

####  **_of leaves that once lay quiet in the bushes,_ **

####  **_now follows at our heels._ **

#### 

####  **_Wherever what the roses have lit is extinguished,_ **

####  **_the rain carries us to the river.  O distant night!_ **

####  **_But a leaf that touched us now floats upon the waves,_ **

####  **_trailing us down to the mouth of the sea._ **

**_-Ingeborg Bachmann_ **

 

**Part II: Whatever the Roses Have Lit is Extinguished**

 

War had been raging for over seven months with no end in sight.

Farnor, god of war, watched as a map was laid out. “Here, here and here,” he said, pointing to marks. “We have substantial troops here, but defenses are wearing thin on this side.”

Dressed in golden armor positioned next to Farnor, the lord of the gods seemed exhausted. “Send reinforcements,” ordered Lumas.

“It’s not that simple.” An edge of annoyance had crept into Farnor’s voice. “If we send reinforcements now, _all_ of our soldiers will be dead by tomorrow.”

Lumas growled in frustration. “I would rather salvage what we have now than leave them there to die.”

“Excuse me, are you the god of war?”

“I am your lord—”

“—shut up,” snarled Hellas, leaning back from the map. His head was throbbing. The constant bickering between the other gods was only exacerbating the pain. “Send Cathal instead. Silba and I will gather the pieces after all is said and done.”

“Excuse me, are _you_ the god of—”

“I am the god of the thing that neither of you seem to comprehend is much bigger than your petty conflicts and your saccharine-sweet stories. You want to sit on your asses arguing over who is the better warrior, fine. But if you’ll excuse me—” he stood up. “—I’m going to go find some booze that will get rid of this migraine you two fuckers have given to me.”

Bracing himself on the edge of the table, Hellas tried his best not to stagger to the tent entrance. But before he could exit, a loud commotion rose up from outside.

“Halt!”

“Who are you?”

“Stop!”

“Great fucking goddess,” snarled Farnor. “These imbeciles don’t know how to deal with intruders?”

Amongst the clamoring male voices, however, a higher one rose up. “Please! I need—I need to deliver a message. To Lord—Lord Hellas.”

The Lord of the Underworld didn’t bother sparing a glance at his brothers before he ducked out of the tent, head still throbbing.

And was greeted with a surprise.

Atop a horse that was on the verge of collapsing, was a young male. His blond hair was plastered to his forehead from the rain, his clothes soaked as well. His eyes caught onto the god, and he fell to her knees as he approached. “L—L—Lord He—Hellas.”

“What do you want?” His voice was cold. He was not Hellas to him. He was the god of death.

“I—I was—I was told to give you this.” Trembling, the young male reached inside his cloak and drew a small roll of parchment.

Hellas took the paper from her. “Who told you?”

The boy averted his eyes. “It was a favor . . . for a friend.”

The male had audacity, he could give him that. Farnor, however, did not seem inclined to share Hellas’s appreciation. “Who does your friend think they are? We are gods, do you think we are subject to the idiotic rules created by your kind? You _will_ tell—”

“—dismissed.”

Farnor’s eyes gleamed dangerously as Hellas turned to him. “What?”

He kept his tone indifferent. “Dismissed. All of you. I believe, Farnor, that you have some work to attend to with the troops?”

Farnor looked absolutely furious, but Lumas tugged him back, snarling something in his ear. The soldiers began to back away from the boy, retreating into their tents and away from the rain, which was beginning to pour once more.

Hellas jerked his head to the nearest soldier. “Get the boy a towel and some soup.”

The frightened male nodded his head hastily. “Y—yes, my lord.”

Hellas turned, and did not look back, the paper clutched tightly in his grip.

 

~*~

 

Parle shook even as he sat next to the roaring fire, a bowl of hot soup clutched in both hands. The sight . . . oh, the sight of her Anneith’s wild hazel eyes, thrusting the paper into his hands. _“I need you to get this map to our forces."_

For all of her fearless charm, Parle had never imagined that the quiet woman would have known the god of death.

He stared up at the point of the tent above him, as if he could see beyond it and at the stormy sky. His mouth moved silently, then stopped. Was it any use to pray to the gods above, if they walked among them now? When not even those they worshipped could protect them against the dark?

He turned towards the entrance of the tent, flapping in the wind and rain. And silently, Parle said something.

A wish, not a prayer.

For a woman whose afraid face had been the last thing he’d seen in the camp of enemies.

 

~*~

 

It was a map.

A map of the entire island, with marks and positions of the Valg armies.

This was what the boy had risked capture and sickness to bring to him.

But that was not what he cared about. Not when—

_-A._

One letter. That was all it took.

His fingers shook as they ran over it, as if he could feel the texture of the signature. The scratch of the stroke. The breath of the writer.

Why? Why now?

He had known there had been something greater pushing him away from her. But what had happened to her, that had led to this?

A searing pain shot through his head and his chest. He nearly toppled over. What was that?

Another shot of agony racked his throat, and this time he did fall onto the floor, convulsing. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Older. Deeper. Intrinsic. The pain mounted, and he cried out, finally. His fingers clutched at anything on the ground that could help him rise, but his body was no longer under his control. It was at the mercy of whatever was controlling him. He clutched at his throat, wheezing. As if someone was—

“Hellas!” A flash of silver armor, and Silba was suddenly kneeling beside him. “Hellas, what—”

“ _—Anneith_ ,” he gasped. “ _Anneith._ ”

Behind Silba, he saw Farnor and Lumas share a glance of dismissal. But something flashed in Silba’s eyes, and he knew that she understood. “Can—can you tell me more, Hellas? Anything?”

“I—” he choked. A searing pain buried itself. Cut itself along his throat. Only desperate gulps of air and the sound of the saliva and bile clogging his throat were audible.

“Hellas? Hellas!” Silba reached out as if to touch him, to heal him—

He seized her wrist, fingers wrapping around it tightly. “Find her,” he croaked. “Find her.”

The goddess nodded, gently detaching herself from his grip. She was gone in a swift moment, winnowing away.

Hellas dug his nails into the ground again, letting out an agitated grunt as he pulled himself up to a sitting position. He could still feel his eyes searing with anger as Farnor and Lumas approached, cautiously.

Farnor spoke first. “Who is she?”

“Farnor,” cautioned Lumas.

“She is none of your business,” snarled Hellas, finally gathering the energy to stand. He glanced at both of the gods before walking past them, a half-limp, half-stumble. “I thought you two had battlefields to attend to.”

There was a quiet murmur behind him as he stopped briefly at the tent flaps. A harsh diminishing of the power in the room alerted him to Farnor’s exit, and he let out a small, concentrated exhale, making a move to winnow. His mind was scrambled, memories and thoughts jostling each other for control. If Anneith . . .

He didn’t know what measure of power allowed him to sense her just moments ago. But the strength of it, the gravity at which it was buried within him—it petrified him.

“Hellas,” The lord called out from behind him. He froze. But did not turn.

Lumas stepped closer, so close that Hellas could feel the raw energy thrumming off of him. “I hope you find her.”

He did not pause to acknowledge beyond the superficial before he threw himself headfirst into that fold between worlds.

 

~*~

 

Silba stood in the library.

She’d followed Hellas’s pain, the bridge that linked the two together, to its destination.

There was no body in the library. Only a pool of blood and the thick scent of magic and death and that unmistakable evil in the air. And despite the lack of evidence, she knew. In her bones, she knew.

Anneith was dead.

The goddess felt tears leaking into her eyes, and she nearly dropped to her own knees beside the girl. She’d barely known her, and yet . . . the stench in the air from those who had done this to her—

She whirled around, the shift in the room’s aura nearly imperceptible, but powerful. “Hellas—”

He pushed her aside. Silba looked after him, and now the tears did begin to flow.

The god towered over Anneith’s body for a long, long moment. His eyes, dark beyond belief, fixated on her.

“Hellas . . .” Silba reached out a hand to place on his shoulder. He jerked away. His eyes still fixated on her body. She watched as he moved to kneel beside her, his own hands shaking as he reached out to touch her. The goddess nearly turned away as her hand lay limp in his.

“They did this to her.” Hellas’s voice was empty. It was the most awful thing Silba had heard in over a millenia. That lack of emotion, the . . . pain beyond imagination. “They did this to her.”

Silba turned away. It was as if he was not speaking to her, as if he was warring with himself. Instead, she looked towards the windows. The sun was setting.

She’d been older than Hellas during the last Valg war, but kept mostly out of the fighting because of her healing abilities. But she hadn’t forgotten the carnage she’d seen, her siblings lying on the battlefield among the others that had fought. Gods that had volunteered. Gods that had died.

It was the beginning of the second war.

 

~*~

 

Hellas stood on the cliffs.

Sun had long set, shadowing the cliffs. The Leander stood, silent in the distance.

A burning rage flamed to life inside him. The building . . . it was just a building. And yet it was  everything. Everything and nothing.

When they had gotten to the manor, they had found it deserted. Not a trace of the monsters that the boy—Parle—had described. Gone without a trace. His fist clenched at the thought of what had transpired there. In that home. In that camp. What Anneith—

A sharp pain sliced into the skin over his knuckles, stretched taut. He looked down to see a rosebush, sitting innocently near his arm. A hand, raised to the moonlight, revealed a scarlet drop sliding down his skin. Goddess, that night . . . that night he’d first seen her.

Something had drawn him to the Leander that night. He’d been wandering in the Héloïse Forest, on a whim. He’d told himself that it was just to perform a routine check on the cabin, to make sure the wards were still sturdy. But distraction had been rampant that night. With news from Cathal that the seas were restless, and the possibility of something dark stirring, his mind was uneasy.

Then he’d heard it. A scream from the distance, so far that it seemed as if it had risen up from the sea itself. And his heart lurched towards it, so painfully sudden that it had his entire body snapping towards it. He’d winnowed as close as he could, not even noting his location before his gaze landed on a figure. Huddled on the ground, as if hiding. It was only when the scent of coppery blood hit him that he realized she was trembling. Caught in a briar.

 _Anneith._ It wasn’t a common name. Not on the Island, at least, where immortals much preferred naming their children ridiculous things with too many vowels. He’d felt her fear that night, at seeing him. Not an uncommon experience. But something about her . . .

Hellas had known many powerful beings over the years. Fae, witch, immortal. But none of them had piqued his interest the way Anneith had. And finding her at the crossroads of another Valg rising . . . he had to see her again. He had to. And when they both realized that she needed help, he’d taken the chance. Selfishly. Knowing that Silba was a much better fit, that he could have—should have—handed the case off to her. But he hadn’t. And . . .

The wound closed up as quickly as it had opened. Some part of him wished it had stayed, if only to remind him. To remind him of what idiocy had held him back from seeking Anneith out after that night. He could still feel the slip of her skin against his, the sound of her sweet moans into his ear, the bliss on her face—

Gone. Gone, gone, gone.

He let out a roar, anger and anguish blending into one incoherent mess. The plants seemed to lean instinctively away from him. But none of them folded under the might, like they should have. Instead, they stayed upright. As if mocking him.

Hellas fell to his knees.

 

~*~

 

Lumas stifled a shiver as he stepped over the threshold.

The scent settled over him like a heavy blanket. The magic that lingered in the house, eating away at it. Like a parasite. Nausea overtook him, and he wondered how Silba and Hellas had been able to stay for so long.

Beside him, Farnor wrinkled his nose, his tan skin turning a shade paler. “It smells of death.” His words, usually sharp, were punctuated by an uncharacteristic pause.

Lumas swallowed. For both of them, the scent brought back unwanted memories. Of bodies on a battlefield, of deaths that they should have prevented. Of monsters in their home. A war that had raged for centuries before they had finally . . . won. The word still had a sour taste in Lumas’s mouth, almost like it was a joke.

The manor was in pristine condition, paintings and artifacts hanging in perfect positions. To any untrained eye, it would have seemed like any other wealthy home. But Lumas’s eyes, haunted and weathered, saw only the film of black magic that lay over the displays.

Farnor nodded towards a large set of wooden double doors ahead. “In there.”

Breathing became a conscious thought as he stepped through, his instincts erratic as they flared to life. _Get out get out get out_. His lungs burned with the forced intake and exhale of air.

“Great goddess, Silba,” said Farnor sharply, and Lumas forced his sight to focus. Crouched in the center of the room was the goddess, shining in silver armor. “Have you been here all this time?”

“Nice of you two to finally show up,” she replied, although the words were lacking their usual bite. “Cathal and Lani are occupied.”

Cathal was most likely busy patrolling the Endless Sea. Lani was away on reconnaissance, patrolling dreams and nightmares alike.

“What is that?” Lumas jerked his head towards Silba’s feet, where a pool of blood lay. As he neared, he began to realize the answer for himself.

“It is . . . it was . . .” Silba was at a loss.

“Whoever Hellas was talking about,” finished Farnor. Not kindly. Lumas would have scolded him, if he didn’t know that his brother was hardly capable of compassion in the best of times. “A Valg murder?” That was the way he was made, to think about death and bloodshed before all else.

“Most likely.”

“Any other deaths?”

“None that I can see. It was as if the entire house just . . . picked up and left.” Silba shook her head before her eyes suddenly fixed on something behind the two gods. “Hellas.”

It was as if the god had spent days at a loss. Not hours. Not as Lumas took in his hair, disheveled. As if he’d been continuously running his hands through it. Not as Lumas took in his eyes, accompanied by dark red circles. Not as Lumas took in the paleness of his face, the gauntness that seemed to outline his entire figure.

Hellas looked wrecked.

He barely acknowledged his own name as he moved towards the windows, his gaze fixed outside.

“Hellas—”

“—I’m bringing her back.”

Lumas held back a shudder as the words ran through him. Before he recognized the severity of what Hellas was implying, before he protested the impossibility of it all. No, before that, he knew Hellas was gone.

His brother was a taciturn being. Secluded in his underworld home, only talking to Silba. Unwilling to associate with them, especially not after his experience in the last Valg war. That had been the last time Lumas had seen him like this. In pure shock. In pure torment. Saying whatever was on his mind, so different from his ordinary disposition that they had all been caught unawares.

“Hellas—” Silba had moved towards him, a hand extended, but he merely stepped away. It was the movement of an ailed person. Not a god.

“I’m bringing her back.”

A silence settled over all of them. Magic was limitless, especially for them. But necromancy . . . that was not magic. That was the ultimate loss of truth, of . . . human rationale. Even the furthest extent of pain could not justify such an act. Blurring the boundary between life and death, already so delicate—

He hadn’t expected Farnor to break the silence.

“Her soul is not yours.”

Hellas whirled around, and it was not the same affected god he had walked in as. His eyes blazing, he spat, “What do you mean? I am the _King_ of the Underworld, I—”

“—her soul is not here, Hellas,” snapped Farnor. This time with a hard edge of forceful sympathy. “And neither are any of our soldiers’.”

“How is that possible?” Snapped Hellas.

“The Valg,” said Farnor with a bite that Silba had never heard before. “Their blades are made of the same opal that lines your realm. That keeps the spirits in.”

“Impossible,” spat Hellas, although Silba could see the fear creeping into his eyes. “All the opal is gone. Destroyed in the last war—”

“—in our lands,” Lumas said softly, recognizing Farnor’s words. “But we never had control of the Valg, even from the start.” He turned to the god of war, whose dark eyes were fixed on Hellas. One hand on the pommel of his sword. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” He demanded.

Farnor rubbed at the stubble that grew along his jawline. “It was just confirmed this afternoon,” he replied. In a tone that made Lumas very much doubt the verity of his words.  

Hellas crumbled, his words weary. “All the souls are in their . . . underworld?”

“We’re not sure if they have one,” admitted Farnor. “All we know is that she—” he stopped abruptly at a glare from Silba.

Hellas did not miss it.

He lunged forward, so quickly that the god of war did not have time to react. “Where is she?” He roared. “What did they do to her?”

Farnor was choking, but he held his brother’s gaze evenly. Silently.

Hellas pushed harder.

Farnor’s eyes widened. Lumas saw his stomach squeezing for air.

“Hellas, _please_ ,” begged Silba.

“Not until he tells me.”

“Well he can’t bloody tell you until you stop throttling him, can he?”

Hellas, with a glance towards Silba, dropped the god, wheezing, to the floor. Lumas saw his sister breathe a sigh of relief.

But before she could coax some peace into the situation, the dark god had Farnor up against the wall again, this time a blade pressed against his neck. “Where. Is. She.”

Farnor couldn’t die from a mere throat cutting. He knew that. Hellas knew that. They all did. And Farnor was a proud, stubborn bastard. He’d likely keep Hellas waiting for the answer for all eternity.

But the pain in her brother’s eyes, the way the blade shook . . .

“Ravana has her.”

Farnor was dropped instantly as Hellas stepped back. “What?” His voice was disbelieving. “What did you say?”

“It was Ravana’s blade that killed her.” Farnor coughed from the ground. “Don’t you feel it? The power in the air? Have you forgotten that pain? The echo of torture that hangs in the air?” He laughed mirthlessly. “You, of all people, should have known.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	25. Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Ravana (rah-vah-NA)  
> Parle (Par-L)

Once upon a time, Hellas had been in love.

She’d been a brunette, tall and beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and full red lips. She’d been joyous, and intelligent, and witty. She’d been perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

And she’d betrayed him. 

“She’s not Ravana, Hellas.” 

Hellas lifted his head to look at her. “Don’t,” he said roughly.

She raised an eyebrow. 

Hellas exhaled through his nose. “I loved someone,” he said slowly. His voice still raspy. “Like her. Once.” He couldn’t even say her name. Hadn’t been able to for quite some time. “And she . . .”

“I know.”

“But you don’t,” said Hellas. Softly. “You don’t.”

“So explain,” Silba replied. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Hellas lowered his eyes once more, and Silba thought he would storm away. Not that she’d blame him. It had been a trying day for them. A trying few months, she’d say. But—

“She has her.” It was a broken whisper, barely audible over the crashing of the waves against the cliffs.  _ “She has her.” _

Silba was silent as Hellas hunched, the haunted look in his eyes never disappearing.

 

~*~

 

Hellas stalked amongst the camp. Sighting the god of death walking among them, the immortals scampered away, ashen looks on their faces. Good. It was a respect he hadn’t been afforded during the last war. 

He was no longer in shock. No. 

He was angry. 

But there was a methodical way to go about this; not barging around all over the place. So, with a controlled exhale and a straighten of his clothes, he entered Parle’s tent. 

The boy shot to his feet the moment he spotted the dark god. “L—Lord Hellas!”

“Parle.” He inclined his head.

“May—may I help you?”

“Yes. In fact, you can.” Hellas sat down on a stool in the corner of the tent. Too casual for anyone’s liking. Especially Parle, judging by the way the boy shifted his feet nervously. He would have guessed that it also had something to do with the fact that Parle had been given his own tent, as opposed to sharing a tent with the other soldiers in the camp. All of it contributed to an environment of unease and tension. The very kind that the god specialized in. “You can start by telling me a little more about the Valg.”

Parle flinched at the word. “What do you need to know?”

Hellas tampered down the urge to ask about her. Either of them. “What was their agenda? Why set up camp?”

“They wanted to . . .” Parle searched for the right word, wringing his hands. “Assimilate.”

_ Assimilate. _ The implication sent a chill up Hellas’s spine. “And what did they do to try and . . . assimilate?”

“They built houses for us. Some of us, at least.” A bitter edge underlined Parle’s words. “The richer immortals reaped more of the benefits.”

“Because the Valg needed power?”

The boy nodded. “I supposed they figured out that the rich were easier to manipulate. Perhaps that’s why they killed all of the lower class immortals first.” A harsh laugh forced itself out of his throat. “Or perhaps they were just casualties of the social class system.”

Hellas ignored the personal agenda. He was not here for that. “Any other tactics they used to gain favor?”

“Well, they—” Parle stopped, his lips pursing. As if wanting to keep a secret. Hellas latched onto it. 

“What? What did they do, Parle?” He was half tempted to stand up and loom over the boy, but judging from the look in his eyes, he was plenty spooked already. 

“They married into the community.”

“Who? Who from the Valg and who from your group?”

“They married Prince Oleandus and Anneith.”

Flames coursed through his blood, burning everything in its path. Hellas inhaled sharply. To anyone else, it would have looked like panic. To those who knew him, it was rage. Pure, destructive, defiant rage. But he schooled his features into placidity and merely said, “Thank you, Parle. Let me know if you think of anything else.”

“Wait!” The boy’s voice sounded as Hellas was about to exit. The god stiffened. 

“Yes, Parle?”

Parle was still fidgeting when Hellas turned to look at him. “I . . . I wanted to ask for something. A favor. Of sorts.”

Hellas chuckled, despite himself. “You needn’t be so nervous, Parle. Ask away.”

“I want to fight.”

Mother above, this was Farnor’s area of expertise. And besides, sending a fourteen-year-old into battle was not a good idea, no matter which god was asked. “Parle—”

“—I know I’m young,” rushed Parle. “But I . . . I need to do something more and sit around all day—”

“—you’re already helping with the camp chores,” said Hellas sternly. “That is quite enough, especially from someone of your age, like you said.”

“But I should be doing more,” argued the boy, and Hellas had to give him credit for the way his eyes sparked in preparation for a debate. “I carried the map inland, through camps of Valg soldiers. Isn’t that enough to prove myself?”

Hellas contemplated his words. On one hand, he was obscenely young to be doing just about everything. On the other . . . “You’re not fighting.”

Parle’s shoulders seemed to hunch at the flat-out denial. 

“But I have another job for you.” Hellas ran a hand through his already-ruined hair, jumping into the next sentence before he could think over how calamitous his decision could prove to be. 

“My lord?”

“I want you to be a spy.”

Parle frowned. “But Lord—”

“—I know you think that spies are failed soldiers. That is not true. In fact, the best soldiers are spies.”

“Well, then how do I know you’re not saying that . . . because it’s easy?”

“Parle, you’re already a spy,” scoffed Hellas. “What do you call your map delivery if not espionage? Spies are woven into every aspect of warfare, from its victory to its defeat. How do you think we chose battle sites? How do you think we prepare to meet our opponents?” He wanted to pick the boy up and shake him.

“But—”

“—this is my final offer, Parle. You become a spy or you don’t fight at all.”

The boy looked like he was biting the inside of his cheek, and Hellas was reminded again of how young he was. And how he had suddenly become responsible for this stick of a boy. 

“I accept.”

 

~*~

 

“Fire!” 

Farnor shielded his eyes from the ignition of the bomb, the orb streaking across the sky before landing with a harsh  _ boom  _ on the other side of the battlefield. He watched as several Valg soldiers went flying into the air, the ground already beginning to stain red. A nod to the archers behind him sent an army of arrows—tipped in poison—flying through the air. 

But it wouldn’t be enough. 

Farnor hefted his sword in his hand, twirling the weight around. Next to him, his second panted. “Now?”

The god of war secured his helmet. “Now.”

There was only the pounding of feet on dirt as the infantry were led into battle, weapons and shields up. If it had been up to him, Farnor would have gladly enlisted the help of his siblings to vaporize the opposition; but the Valg’s presence had them all feeling weaker than usual. 

And besides, this was personal. 

The first clash of sword on obsidian was a symphony.

Farnor’s eyes met the gold of a Valg soldier, who bared his teeth at him. The Valg had the good sense to wear armor from head to toe. The god rather wished they hadn’t. He hacked at the soldier, who, despite his prowess, struggled under the rapid-fire attacks. Finally, Farnor saw his chance: an opening between the soldier’s shoulder pad and arm plate.

A sword found its home there, and the soldier crumbled with a shout. Farnor didn’t smile. He plunged a foot down onto the soldier’s chest, inspiring a choking noise. He kicked off the helmet, revealing a handsome young man with dark hair. 

“Do it,” the soldier hissed, his teeth bloodied. “Do it, scum.”

“Scum?” Farnor almost laughed. “You’re underestimating things a little there, but all right.” 

His sword stuck into the ground as it sliced clean through the Valg soldier’s neck. Farnor could almost feel the soul pass through his sword, through the air—and then to the ground. He didn’t know where they went after they died. Somehow, he didn’t want to ask Hellas for clarification. All that mattered was that their heads were off. 

There were hundreds of heads rolling on the ground when the Valg finally retreated. Farnor walked alongside the bodies, eyes scanning the ground for his own soldiers. One of his officers walked next to him, her bright blue eyes sharp. “Do you think they’ll come back?” There was no “sir,” or “lord.” His soldiers knew him well enough to disregard formalities. When bonds had been forged in steel and blood, there was little need for much else. 

“Eventually,” he replied evasively, to which his officer gave a small huff. He ignored it. “He’s one of ours,” Farnor nodded towards a young man with a slash down his chest. 

“I’ll get a team out here,” she muttered, stalking off of the battlefield. 

Farnor stared at the young man. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, although it was difficult to tell with immortals. Even so, he clearly wasn’t middle-aged. The god rubbed at his jaw, the stubble scratching at his palm. 

The air seemed heavier than usual on top of the field, the screams and sounds of the battle still echoing in his ears. It was why Hellas had been exhausted lately, he knew. And with the new development at the Leander, he was sure that there would be worse delays in the Underworld before it was all over. 

The thought of Hellas made him clench his teeth together. There was little love lost between the two of them. Farnor hadn’t forgiven him for the events of the last war, and the fact that it seemed to be happening again did not improve his impression of his brother. 

So he stared out over the battlefield once more, letting the metallic scent of blood and death wash over him. It was Hellas’s domain now, but it was Farnor who had started the bloodshed. 

And there he would remain. 

 

~*~

 

They were gone. 

Not all of them, of course. The Valg spread like an infestation; once they were in one place, they never left. 

But the important ones were gone. 

The key players. 

Hellas tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword, feeling the cold metal like a burn on the skin of his palm. It was a reminder of the shame he carried on his soul. Her name, carved on his heart for the rest of eternity. A punishment for his stupidity. 

He gritted his teeth as he looked out to the Endless Sea from the coast of the Flatlands. The blue waves lapped at the shore, carrying pebbles out to water. 

So it would be. 

They were running from him.

He would find them. 

Hellas turned from the sight, winnowing back into the Underworld.

There was another name burned into his heart, the name of another woman. 

And he would find her. He swore it to himself, to the Goddess, and to her.

The dark god had an idea of what they were doing. What they always did, the Valg. They were invading the Divine Island, like they had millennia ago. Only this time, they were much, much more prepared.

His steps sunk into the wet marsh beneath his feet. Hellas clenched his teeth at the thought of what he was about to do, the person he was about to visit. 

Malachy was waiting for him in front of his shack of a home, a grin stretching his gnawed-away features. “Your majesty,” he simpered, bowing deeply. “Welcome home.”

“Tell me where she is.”

The prophet held out a hand. “And in return?”

Hellas had him pinned to the wall in a fraction of a second, the man’s breath rancid as he choked. The god could feel the vibrations of his throat underneath his grip, the movement sending sparks of pure satisfaction through him. “I apologize, Malachy,” he breathed into his ear. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time for pleasantries today.” A harder push to his jugular emphasized his point. “Where. Is. She?”

“You’ll have to be—more specific,” spluttered the prophet, wheezing. “There are thousands—if not millions—of she’s—”

“—Ravana,” snarled Hellas. 

Malachy’s eyes went as wide as saucers.

“Ravana,” he purred. “Ravana, oh, that sweet seductress. And she has the lovely Lady Anneith, doesn’t she? Yes, I can feel it. The imbalance in the air.”

“Imbalance?” He demanded.

Malachy bared his teeth in a horrifying smile. “Yes. Imbalance. I’m surprised you didn’t feel it yourself, majesty. The raw power, the spurts of magic?” He laughed, a cold noise that shot straight to Hellas’s bones. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was blessed by the Goddess herself.”

_ The Goddess herself.  _

“Say that again. What did you say?” Hellas breathed, shaking him.  _ “What did you say?” _

Malachy only gave him a coy smile, pressing a scarred finger to his lips. “Some things are better left secret, my lord.” Another laugh punctured the air. “It must hurt, knowing that dear Ravana solved the puzzle before you did. Or did your blind adoration for her hold you back from the truth? What scared you, Hellas? The fact that she is the most powerful thing to exist in millennia? Or the fact that she was destined for death from the moment she was born?” 

Hellas stumbled back, his mind racing before he gathered himself. There would be time to unravel Malachy’s words—and lies—later. “Where is Ravana,” he repeated through gritted teeth. 

Malachy shrugged.

Hellas growled. Stepping forward, fingers clenched in fists.

The prophet held up his hands. “All right, all right! Your majesty, I promise I do not know. I swear it on my life.”

“You’re a stinking corpse of a soul, Malachy.”

“Fine! I swear it on . . . Ravana’s life. I swear that I do not know where she is. She isn’t on the Island, and she’s out of my sight. My best guess is that she’s back on Valg Island or whatever their home is called—”

“Mavros,” muttered Hellas. “I’m familiar.”

Malachy clapped his hands together. “Well, then, it’s all set!”

He was a good ten yards away from Malachy when the prophet called out, “Send my greetings to Ravana for me.”

Rage flared to life inside him again, followed by a choked scream from Malachy and the dull sound of a body hitting the ground. 

It was a shame he’d regenerate after a few hours.

 

~*~

 

“Absolutely not,” said Lumas, an air of disbelief undercutting his words. “Mother’s tits, Hellas—”

_ Thanks for selling me out,  _ the words coming out as a hiss over their mental channel.

Silba winced, but her voice was strong in his mind.  _ I had no choice. See some sense, Hellas, please. _

Hellas folded his hands in his lap as Lumas ranted. 

“Why the—” the lord stopped before  _ hell  _ could escape his lips, a realization that Hellas smirked at. “Why would you even think of doing such a thing?” Lumas finished wearily.

Without turning to his sister, Hellas shot back deftly, “I can travel through channels in the Underworld to Mavros. More discreetly than the rest of you can. It’s only logical that I take the first step.”

Lumas sighed, running a scarred hand against his forehead. “Hellas . . .” 

“It makes sense, Lumas. You know that.”

“And how do I know that you’re not going just to cause trouble?”

“For what purpose?”

“For murdering an innocent woman in cold blood.”

It took all he had not to let the emotions roll of off him. “It was a tragedy,” he said simply. “But collateral damage is unavoidable.” Hellas could feel Silba’s unwavering gaze on him.

Lumas raised an eyebrow.

“It was an infatuation,” he said smoothly. “That was all.”

The god pursed his lips. “Silba, would you please leave us for a moment? I’d like to speak with our brother in private.”

_ Our brother.  _ Second only to Silba, Lumas was the most sincere out of the other gods. But even he made the phrase sound like a hidden insult.

Lumas folded his hands once Silba had left, resting them on top of his desk. They’d retreated to his office in the godly dimension, leaving Farnor in charge of the destruction happening on the Island. 

“Hellas.” The air was punctured by a slow sigh. “I know that you are going to go search for her no matter what I say.” The lord of the gods lifted his head. “I know love when I see it.” 

It was easy to overlook Lumas’s formal occupation. God of love. Not merely lord of the gods. God of love. 

“It was an infatuation,” Hellas repeated. “Infatuation is part of the early stages of love, is it not? This relationship, like many infatuations, never developed further.”

“Hellas, you’re going to need to try harder if you’re going to make me believe that you never loved Lady Anneith.”

He merely stared back at him.

“Hellas, you know why I can’t condone this . . . mission of yours to Mavros.”

“And why not?”

“Both you and I know why not.”

“No. Not quite.” Hellas leaned forward, fingers curled around the arms of his chair. “The last time I went to Mavros, it was to embrace Ravana.” Cold wind swept into the room. 

“This time, I intend to end her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	26. Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (Anne-ITH)  
> Ciardhubh (KIER-vuh)  
> Ravana (rah-vah-NA)

He stared at himself in the mirror.

Silba had commented on how gaunt he looked a few days ago, to which he replied, “The Underworld does not receive sunlight, of course I’m gaunt.” But now, looking at himself, he could see it. Dark circles accentuated his eyes, his irises darker than ever. Against his black tunic, his skin gleamed like the moon to the night sky.

He looked like someone who would fall apart at the first sign of conflict, not a god who held fate in the palm of his hand.

Hellas braced himself as he stepped out of Ciardhubh and journeyed along the bank of the River Cocytia. His home rose majestic above the disarrayed wasteland of the Underworld. Built out of white and black marble, it caught the eye of anyone who looked in the distance. Reminding them. Taunting them of whose control they were under.

“Good day, Obol.”

The gray man jumped at the sound of his voice, turning quickly. “My lord!”

Hellas nodded to the opposite bank, far enough that he could only see wisps of the waiting crowd. “Busy day?”

Obol was a god, a lesser one. He had sprung from the same misery that Hellas had, eras and eras ago, given the job of guiding the dead to judgement. If Hellas hadn’t known that the male was terrified of him, he might have considered him a friend. Obol adjusted his outfit, a crisp suit colored in drab gray. “It always is.”

“Yes.” Obol always wore gray, but today, the color seemed even more faded than usual. “There are more and more spirits every day.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you sit and judge them all.”

“Yes.” Hellas winced. “Actually, about that—”

“—no,” Obol interrupted, eyes wide. “Hellas.” Obol was also the only one allowed (or, perhaps, brave enough) to speak to the god as a familiar. “Hellas, you can’t.”

“You haven’t even heard what I’m about to say.”

“I already know.” Obol seized Hellas’s arm, turning their backs on the crowd across the river. Their clamoring grew louder. “It’s the same reason why you tore through the arriving from a few days ago, rage and panic on your face.”

“Well, I thought it was more like regality and calm, but—”

“—Hellas, you cannot go to—” Obol threw his hands up, unwilling to even utter the name. “That place!”

“I’m going,” said Hellas. His voice had gone cold. Obol dropped his hand, although a look of placid concern was still on his face. “And if you won’t cooperate, I’ll tear through the door myself.”

Obol paled.

There were several doors in the Underworld, underneath the surface where the souls of the dead lingered. They were cut into the bedrock, sealed on the opposite side to prevent beings from entering the Underworld. Those already in the Underworld, however, could use them to travel elsewhere. Each door led to the world of a different species, one for each species. That was the one thing that linked them all together—death.

But in order to access them, he needed Obol’s power.

“You can’t do that,” Obol snapped. “You need me.”

Hellas tilted his head from side to side, considering it. “‘Need’ is a strong word.” His power was enough to open the door with or without Obol’s added magic, but it would leave him drained. And it was something of a custom to ask him.

“No,” Obol declared. “I’m not doing it. Hellas,” he lowered his voice. “Think about what you’re doing. With you gone, who will judge and sort the dead?”

“I’ll delegate. I’ve already picked some worthy souls—”

“—you’re going to delegate judgement to mortal souls?” Obol let out an incredulous laugh. “Hellas, do you hear yourself?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “Obol, I am doing this with or without your help. So either you can abandon me, leaving me to open the door myself, and come out drained on the other side in Mavros, or you can help me.”

Obol pursed his lips in a sour look. “Fine,” he said. “But Hellas, this is a bad idea.”

Hellas pretended not to hear him, taking off back towards Ciardhubh and leaving the shorter man to catch up to him. Both gods stopped as they reached the edge of the palace’s back wall. In the marble, so faint you wouldn’t have noticed it unless you were looking for it, were a series of etchings. The ancient language described every species that had a door; anyone else would have just taken it as a quirk of the dark god’s palace.

Hellas and Obol knew better.

The king pressed his palm to the marble. Warmth spread underneath his palm, and the marble disappeared, revealing a set of stairs leading downward. Little orbs of light sparked to life as the two gods made their way down, their footsteps echoing throughout the empty space. At last they reached the bottom floor, and Hellas turned to his left and walked into center stage.

It was a room of doors, surrounding them on all four sides. The floor was tiled with black and white marble, not breaking from the palace’s design. Hellas could feel Obol shifting behind him. He was barely managing to keep himself still.

The doors rattled, spurred by mysterious force on the opposite side. There was a reason that the doors were hidden so far underneath the most fortified structure in the Underworld, and it was simple.

The gods’ stronghold high above the clouds had been invaded many times. At this point, it was expendable. Power remained with them even when they were away from home.

The Underworld was not expendable in the same manner.

“Hellas.” He turned to find Obol’s eyes fixed on one door in particular.

The door that led to Mavros was pitch black, covered in scratches. The door bulged in odd places, pulsating as if it were a living thing. As the gods stepped closer, an invisible force seemed to push back at them.

“It is now or never,” Obol said. He sighed. “There’s really no discouraging you from this.”

Hellas shook his head.

“Ready, then?” Obol pressed his hand to the center of the door. Hellas gripped the doorknob. The door began to shake violently, as if writhing under their paired touch. Hellas gritted his teeth as the resistance grew, nearly forcing his feet to slide back. He pushed harder.

The door swung open.

Obol hunched over almost immediately, his palm blackened and burnt-looking. Hellas’s hand didn’t look much better. The god peered behind the door, but all he could see was a narrow tunnel.

Obol waved his hand. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Hellas took a deep breath as he stepped into the passageway.

 

~*~

 

It was just as he remembered it.

He had taken this passage many times before. It was why Obol had decided to help him open it instead of calling his bluff to do it himself. Hellas would have done it.

It was all the same. The damp smell, the wind that came out of nowhere to douse him in cold power and snuff out his light. Hellas walked in the darkness, the air shrouding him in tense silence.

_Anneith._

The name coursed through him, as rhythmic as the beating of his heart. _Ann-eith, Ann-eith, Ann-eith._ His footsteps fell into the same beat. It grounded him, gave him a mantra which to drive him.

Hellas was unlike the other gods. Greater, lesser, they were all the same. They would preside over their duties, get bored, and go down to the mortal dimensions and cause mayhem. And then the cycle would start anew. He never participated in such folly. Hellas laughed.

And perhaps that was his own folly. To dedicate himself to his work, so that when any temptation came along, it took far too little to pry him away. It had ruined him once. Would it ruin him again?

No.

It would not.

It was just as he told Lumas. The last time he took this passageway, the last time he traveled to Mavros, it was on a fool’s quest.

This time would be vastly different.

 

~*~

 

The passageway spat him up at the edge of a cliff.

Wind ruffled his hair, the salt of the sea flooding his mouth. Hellas looked around him.

It was as if he’d never left the Island, and for a moment he thought that perhaps Obol had tricked him, forced him to stay on the Island—until an acrid taste replaced the salt and the clear water beneath him became scarlet. Blood.

Hellas turned away from the sight, the thought making him nauseous. He was far, far away from home. From his magic. Opening the door, even with Obol’s help, had exhausted him. He could barely find the strength to stand up, much less conjure his magic. Mavros was a hotbed of lies and danger and darkness, and it all cut into him. _You’re sleepy,_ a voice whispered to him. _Poor traveler, won’t you like to lie down? The grass is so soft . . ._

 _No!_ Hellas snarled, expelling the voice from his head. It recoiled with a hiss. He shook his head. If he was to find Ravana, he’d have to fight harder than this.

He squinted. In the distance, a forest loomed. Against the blinding white sky, the trees looked like reverse lightning, sticking straight up from the ground, colored black. If he wanted to get to the center hub of the Valg’s territory, he’d have to go through the forest.

Hellas fought the voice all the way there.

 

~*~

 

His head was spinning as he stumbled through the forest.

Either the Valg had become extremely strong or he had become extremely weak.

He was banking on the latter.

Hellas nearly stumbled into a tree, grabbing a branch to steady himself. His whole world tilted on its side, and his insides churned roughly. He would have seized that moment to vomit, if not for a voice that projected suddenly.

“My darling Hellas. If I had known that our home had been so inhospitable to you, I would have come sooner.”

It was Ravana.

 

~*~

 

She was just as beautiful as he remembered.

Ravana smirked at him as if she could hear his thoughts. “Did you miss me, Hellas?” She purred, slinking towards him. He stood still as she placed a hand on his shoulder, trailing it down his back.

Her midnight hair shone in the moonlight, her pale cheeks even more so. Scarlet lips edged closer to his ear. He held still.

“It’s been so long.”

“I can’t say I’ve lamented it.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “That’s a shame.”

His entire body was screaming at him to back away, to winnow, to get the hell out of there. _You can’t take her on, especially in this state._ But he held still. He couldn’t move, couldn’t lose this chance—

“Where is she?” He turned his head to face her. Ravana had her hand on his shoulder again, her face unflinchingly close.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “Who?”

Hellas’s hand shot out, seizing her wrist tightly. “Don’t play games with me, Ravana,” he snarled.

“Oh,” she said breathlessly. “But isn’t that what this is, Hellas? A game? A grand, grand game since the dawn of time? You and I are eternal. We could rule the world, do you know that? And your poor, sweet Anneith—” He growled at her name on Ravana’s tongue “—was never meant to last. Did you even notice how sickly she was after battle broke out? How she was cold, shivering and shaking?”

Ravana tore herself out of Hellas’s grasp, circling him. “Vomiting all over herself on her wedding night, the only reason why my brother didn’t fuck her—” Hellas felt sick at the thought “—she was _weak_. You should be thanking me for saving her from years of misery.”

Hellas snapped. Ravana cried out as he engulfed them in a swirling storm of darkness. It may have been night already, but his dark power made the sky even blacker. Ravana’s head snapped all around her, trying to scheme her way out. But when she determined that there was none—she merely smiled. Bared her teeth at him. “So that’s how you want to play?” She shouted over the whipping wind.

He advanced towards her, slowly. There was nothing that he was afraid of, nothing that he could be afraid of. Only Anneith’s beautiful face in his mind as he backed Ravana into the edge of the storm. “Where is she?” He shouted.

Ravana dipped her head down, and for a moment, Hellas thought she had cracked. Come to her senses.

But her eyes snapped up and bored into his. “You’ll never get her back, Hellas.” Ravana let out a maniacal laugh, the sound echoing throughout the forest. “You can keep hoping, pining your poor little heart away, but you’ll never find her.”

He gripped her by the arms, his strength enough to leave marks. “Ravana—”

A sharp pain cut through him, and his hands dropped to his side as he backed away. A blade was embedded in his abdomen. Moving of its own accord, blood spreading across his clothes. Hellas looked up just in time to see Ravana’s blinding smile. He fell to the ground.

“Take him with us,” Ravana seemed to be saying, her voice fading. “He’ll be of service to us.”

The world blackened as he fell into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	27. Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Mantyx (man-TIX)  
> Oleandus (oh-lee-AN-dus)  
> Ravana (rah-vah-NA)
> 
> HI everyone! So this happens to be the last chapter that I have prewritten, which means that I'll most likely be breaking the one-chapter-per-fortnight (not fortnite, you heathens) schedule I've been sticking to for the past month. School has been a bitch to manage, and I hope you understand. Thank you to everyone for all of your marvelous support, and I'll see you as soon as possible! ❤

He awoke in the dark.

But this was a very different kind of darkness from the type he was accustomed to. There was peace in death, whether mortals believed it or not. Even in the haunting screams of evildoers being punished. 

There was no peace here.

Hellas stifled a groan as he sat up. He didn’t know who was lurking beyond the four walls that encased him. If they would hear his noises and come running. He reached a hand up to touch his head. Then his stomach. Even in the dark he could see the soaked fabric, feel it underneath his fingers. So they’d tugged the blade out. Hellas blinked rapidly, his eyes attempting to acclimate to the darkness. He could barely make out the outline of his own hands. It looked as if he was in a bunker, stone walls all around him. No window for light. 

The dark god stared down at his wound again, letting out a pathetic wince. He was far from home. Far enough that the wound would likely not heal for days. 

Perhaps weeks.

He stayed sitting on the ground. Conserving his energy. Biding his time.

Hellas stared at the wall in front of him. A thought crossed his mind. He shifted his weight backwards, using his legs to drag his body across the floor. The god knelt before the wall, wound screaming in protest. His fingers, shaking, reached out to touch the stone. 

Carvings. Tallies. 

He couldn’t hold back the mirthless laugh that escaped him as he threw his head back. So they had seen it fit to imprison him in the same place. The same cell where he had been centuries and millennia ago. 

Hellas stared at the ceiling. And, like the previous time, there was no one coming for him. Not that he expected otherwise. 

“So you’re awake.” 

He whipped his head towards the wall to his left. Which had disappeared to reveal the last fucking person he wanted to see.

Ravana was dressed in a gold dress, the neckline dipping in a low vee to reveal her generous breasts. The skirt hit the floor, allowing a small train to form behind her. A slit ran up her thigh, her pale leg peeking out. The smug grin she wore on her face was the most disgusting of all.

Hellas stayed silent. Charging at Ravana was futile; the space between them hummed with magic. He would know from prior experience.

So Ravana wasn’t dressed in armor. That meant two things: one, he was officially in the royal court of the Valg, and two, the war was going extremely well for them. His chest stuttered briefly as he thought of . . . them. His . . . brothers and sisters. Farnor would likely be foaming at the mouth as he was told of Hellas’s departure. The god could already hear his brother’s words in his head. Blames that would only incite him, so he kept quiet. Lumas could handle that. 

His realm. Obol would be working all three: judge, jury, and punisher. Enough to exhaust Hellas, much less a minor god like him. The guardian had been right; he didn’t delegate responsibilities to mortals, dead or alive. 

There was one exception, and it was the reason why he had become Ravana’s pet once more.

“It’s all right if you’re not chatty,” Ravana said casually. Picking at her nails. She nodded to someone standing outside of Hellas’s line of view. “Guards, take him.” 

Two scarlet-clad soldiers stepped into his cell and hoisted him up underneath his arms. Chains locked around his wrists. Hellas laughed. “Am I to be your pet now,  _ debua?” _

Ravana’s face was impassive, but an unreadable emotion passed over her eyes. “You were always my pet,” she replied as he was dragged towards her. Behind him, a soldier slammed his club into the back of his knees, forcing him into a kneeling position. The Valg princess ran a finger underneath his chin, tipping it up. She bared her teeth, smiling. Saying no more to him. 

Ravana walked ahead while Hellas was chaperoned by the two Valg guards, every step feeling like a stab to his wound. It was all too familiar; being led down the long hallways of the dungeon, flanked by guards who would not allow him to look anywhere but ahead. Except, he supposed, the last time all of the cells had been full. This time, it was only him.

But that, he supposed, would change. Very soon. 

As they came to the end of the hallway, it was flight after flight of stairs, Hellas’s wound crying out for attention. As if sensing his discomfort, Ravana called, “Do you like the new marble stairs? We had them newly installed.”

He bit back a remark. He heard no irritated huff from Ravana. They were older this time around. Cleverer. 

Damaged. 

Slowly, the dungeon melded into hallways decked in luxury, gold chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Guards at every door, young males and females of indescribable beauty. They came upon a grand set of double doors, painted gold. Hellas took a deep breath, the only luxury he would afford himself as Ravana gripped both handles and flung the doors open. 

Here, they would part ways. As Ravana marched ahead, back as straight as any of the other soldiers. As the guards took him by the arms again and tossed him, hard, to the ground. 

In front of King Mantyx. 

Hellas spat blood to the side, watching the scarlet stain the white tiles before raising his head. Dark eyes met gold eyes.

It was a battle between kings. 

“Where are your brothers?” Hellas feigned hurt. “Would you rob me of my rightful royal reception?” He got a club to the back for that.

Mantyx sighed, leaning back in his throne. Where two equally large throne would have been placed, on either side of him, there were smaller ones. Less ornately decorated. Upon which sat Ravana and Oleandus. The princess’s posture was relaxed, as if she was bored about the scene playing out in front of her. 

The last time Hellas had the misfortune of meeting Oleandus had been when he was a child, no older than ten. It seemed that years and years of war and fighting had hardened the already-hateful boy into something crueler. An indescribable malice glossed his pale gold eyes as he looked down at Hellas, his throne sitting on a gilded pedestal above him. 

This was the male who had nearly taken Anneith. In more ways than one.

It took Hellas all he had not to charge at him. Not to show the room of the wild, dark god they thought him to be. 

“My brothers are away, dealing with other unpleasantries. I have the task of finding a way to dispose of you.” 

“Dispose?” Hellas laughed. “Oh, Mantyx, Mantyx.” He raised his wrists as much as he could, mustering confidence beyond his kneeling posture. “I thought we cleared this up years ago.”

A smile plays on Mantyx’s own lips. “Ah, but years ago—” the king leaned forward “—we thought you mattered to your brethren.”

Hellas raised an eyebrow. “That’s your big rebuttal?”

Something hardened in the king’s eyes at the god’s thick sarcasm. Mantyx ran a long finger along the delicate gold carvings of his throne. “I thought you were smarter than this, Hellas.”

“Pardon?”

Mantyx laughed. “You should have learned by now. Or so I would have thought. At my feet, for the second time in a short lifetime, for the same exact reason as our last encounter. ”

“And what reason is that?” He asked, already suspecting the answer. Perhaps he just liked to torture himself.

Mantyx leaned forward, teeth gleaming in a bright smile. “Folly.”

Hellas laughed, unable to stop himself. The king’s jaw twitched. “Folly? That’s broad, don’t you think?”

Mantyx stood suddenly, face nearly violet. Ravana and Oleandus shot to their feet hastily, eyes flitting from each other to their father. “Do not make a fool of me, boy.”

“But isn’t that what the definition of folly is?” The god tilted his head. “Perhaps I was sent here because of your idiocy. I pose you the question: shouldn’t  _ you _ have learned by now?”

Mantyx let out a roar of anger, taking a step towards him before Ravana said sharply, “Father.” It was as if his daughter’s warning was the only barrier between him and ripping apart Hellas’s smug grin. The king let out a measured breath, his golden eyes snapping towards the princess. “What?” He snarled. Ravana looked unaffected.

“If you kill him now, we lose any chance to interrogate him and gather information on the immortals.” Hellas strained his ears to hear the whisperings between the royal family. 

“Kill me?” Hellas said loudly, drawing their attention back to him. His chains clanked loudly as he laughed himself hoarse. False mirth, something that tensed the shoulders of everyone in the room. “Kill me,” he repeated. He lifted his head up to meet the gazes that greeted him: seething rage from Mantyx, self-satisfaction from Oleandus, and a peculiar sense of analyzation from Ravana that he would require more time to unpack later. “And how do you propose to kill a god?” He propped a chin up on his knee, the handcuffs heavy on his wrists but worth it, if just to look like a conceited prick. 

“We have the weapons,” Oleandus snapped. “Technology and metals beyond your wildest dreams—”

“—Oleandus.” There was something deadly in Ravana’s tone that made her brother abruptly shut his mouth. A vein of fear passed through his eyes.

“Oh, come on,  _ debua,” _ Hellas taunted. “Let them speak.”

Her eyes flashed. He had decimated her family’s unity, her people’s unity in a matter of moments. Perhaps if it had been just him and Ravana in the same room, there wouldn’t be such irritation in her movements. But it was not, and she was playing mother to her reckless father and foolish brother. “Take him away,” she spat to the guards. Hellas found himself being hauled up underneath his arms again. “We have no need of him now.”

“But what of later?” He shouted mockingly. 

No one responded, too busy arguing amongst themselves.

 

~*~

 

So they could kill him.

Hellas sat upright. This time, they had chained him to the wall, restricting his movement. No matter. He could think just as well chained as when he was moving. 

It wasn’t as if the death of his brethren was a dismissed topic the last time they had been faced with the Valg. Gods never died. They could be vanquished, to the extent that their physical forms would be destroyed. But the magic would remain, so that millennia later, when the Goddess decided to bestow it on another individual, it could be transferred. A few minor gods had gone through the transformation, but never Hellas or his siblings. 

But if the Valg truly had something . . . 

The dark god slumped down to the floor, lying down. The rough ground scratched his cheek as he turned on his side. He had no wish to see any of his siblings dead. Although if the worst came to pass, he had a pecking order. 

But he was getting ahead of himself.

_ So how would they do it? _ He wondered. And then he remembered why he was in Mavros. Why he was lying on the cold floor of a cell, haunted by memories all around him. 

Anneith. Hellas bolted upright. 

He knew Ravana. Saw the tic in her jaw as he spoke to her, the mirror of what he was sure was on his own face. And if he was correct, Anneith had been a trial run. There were few people who knew the full extent of Anneith’s powers; he would bet good money that Oleandus didn’t know who he had . . . married, and Mantyx would have exploited her by now if he knew. Ravana trusted no one. Which meant that Anneith was under her control. A woman, of that  power , at the  height of her youth. _Trapped._

Oleandus hadn’t been lying. 

The Valg could decimate them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	28. Twenty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anneith (anne-ITH)  
> Ravana (rah-vah-NA)
> 
> One continuous scene as a chapter? From this author???? Unheard of.   
> That being said, thank you to everyone who is sticking with me despite dropping off the face of the earth for so long! You guys are the best. ❤

They were toying with him. Two weeks later, and no one apart from a guard who brought him meals had approached his cell. Not one being. It meant that he was no closer to finding Anneith. 

They’d even removed his chains, so that he could pace restlessly. Hellas hated that he had fallen so easily back into his nervous habits. It was a show of weakness. He was even afraid to think too long about the things that mattered—Anneith, her powers, where she was . . . As far as he knew, the Valg didn’t have daemati powers. But it had also been over three millennia since he’d come here. Things had changed. 

So he limited his schemes to a minimum, and thought instead about tedious things. How Obol was probably drowning in souls. Where the immortals could have possibly gone. How his siblings would never come for him. 

That last thought was swept into the whirling winds of his mind, eddying down into the tornado funnel. It wasn’t a hard truth to realize. They hadn’t come during the last war, and they had no reason to come now. Not even Silba would dare step foot in Mavros. Even to rescue him. Hellas slid down to the floor, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. He exhaled sharply. 

But this time he was here for something greater than himself. More than a simple folly from a young god. And that in it of itself was enough for him to push the thoughts of his siblings out of his mind. Hellas’s eyes snapped towards the wall to his left as clinking sounds echoed down the hallway. He could hear the low rumble of the Valg guards’ voices, probably thinking that they were speaking quietly enough that he couldn’t hear them. 

“Why do we have to do this shit?” One grumbled. 

“Because it’s our duty,” Another voice sounded. 

“It’s our duty to feed the prisoner,” the first said in a mocking voice. His companion huffed. 

“I don’t enjoy it either, but we have to do this. The king specifically told us to.”

“The king has no real power.” 

“Shh!” The more level-headed of the two hushed in a panic. “You can’t say that.” 

They emerged as Hellas turned his head towards the wall (now gone, protected by a magical barrier). Two males, one short and one tall, but both with the same golden eyes and ethereal features looked down at him. The scarlet of their uniforms was blinding. But judging by the pudginess of the shorter guard and the stick-thin frame of the taller one, they were clearly household soldiers. Nothing more. 

Hellas didn’t bother to get up on his feet. “Hello, boys.” He said casually. “Come to say hello? Your other military friend usually greets me. This is a treat.”

“We’ve brought you your meal. Scum,” the shorter one tacked on helpfully. A metal tray slid through the transparent barrier. Hellas didn’t have to look at it to know that it contained the rotting films of food left behind on plates and gruel. The stench was enough to tell him.

The god sighed and leaned his head back on the wall. “My, my, what manners.”

“You’re filthy,” the taller one said suddenly. His golden eyes had lit up with some unnamed rage. “Not worth our time. We will kill every last one of you.” 

Hellas was silent. Then he let out a loud, loud laugh. The guards’ faces flamed red. “What are you smirking at?” Snapped the shorter guard. 

“You two are cute,” Hellas wheezed, attempting to keep himself under control—and failing miserably. 

The shorter guard charged forward, held back only by the arm of his companion. “Cute?” He screeched. “I’ll show you who’s—”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” a smooth, cold voice emerged from behind the squabbling guards. Both of them froze, turning slowly around. The tall soldier’s eyes went wide, a panicked gasp trapped in his throat. 

“M—Your Highness!” He stammered, dropping into a deep bow. Without the support of his arm, the shorter soldier nearly fell to the ground in a heap before collecting himself into a matching position. 

Ravana was dressed in scarlet armor, a sword strapped at her hip, hair pulled back from her face and coiled into a tight bun. She smiled pleasantly at the soldiers—her usual serpentine grin—but Hellas could see the tautness in her cheeks and forehead, the way her fingers ran along the pommel of her sword. “Back to your duties,” she said. Her golden eyes fixed on Hellas. “I’d like a word with the prisoner. Alone.”

The shorter one fiddled with a spot on his military uniform. “But, Your Highness, the king asked us to stay with the prisoner until he’d finished his meal—”

“—I believe I asked you to leave, soldier.” Ravana’s eyes cut into the male, scarlet lips set in a half-smirk, half-sneer. “I don’t believe I left an opportunity for a response.”

The taller soldier merely looked at his compatriot, silent. The shorter one gulped. “Yes, Your Highness.” Hellas watched as they scampered away, fear in their steps, before turning back to the Valg princess.

“What brings you to my humble abode?” Hellas sketched a mocking bow, keeping his dark eyes fixed on her even as he bent down. 

“I’m offering you a chance,” she said. Her hand froze on her sword, halting her nervous strokes. 

He tilted his head. “For what? Pray tell,  _ debua.” _

Something like fear crossed Ravana’s face.  _ “Don’t _ call me that,” she snarled. 

“Why?”

“You know why.” It was a slip on her part, both of them knowing she would have never admitted it. He watched as Ravana swallowed roughly, a momentary lapse in demeanor before her features went icy again. “Enough of this idiocy.” 

“And here I was, thinking we were enjoying ourselves.”

“You will be escorted in twenty minutes to a small chamber near the throne room. You will tell us everything we need to know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your grand plan is to torture me?” Hellas laughed. “I thought we settled this last time.” The god tapped his waist, where a scar lay. The memory was hazy, but his skin remained branded. Evidence of what had transpired. Legitimacy of the screams that echoed in his ears, the blood when he bit through his tongue. The bleary sight of a woman in red guarding the exit. 

To her credit, Ravana’s expression didn’t change. “Benevolence,” she said, as if thinking out loud. 

“From you? Hardly.”

The princess’s gaze could cut diamonds. “And yet here I am. Benevolence, Hellas, not weakness. That is what has led me here. Benevolence, and pity.”

“I never implied weakness.”

“You imagine me too much of a fool to say that truthfully.”

“Why not?” He met her gaze evenly. “Are you that willing to forget the two of us,  _ debua?” _

“I had thought that I would leave it in the past,” she crooned. “Or would you like to revisit that?” In an instant she was in front of him, through the invisible barrier. “You and I,” Ravana whispered, breath warm on his neck. The air around him seemed to freeze, goosebumps rising on his skin. “Those long mornings spent at your palace, in your silken sheets . . .” Her cheek brushed against his. “Did you like my lips on your cock? Did you like sliding inside me . . . thrusting . . . coming? How I let you do whatever you wanted? Oh, Hellas,” she moaned. 

“But,” Ravana purred, sliding back. Hellas hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath until it rushed out of him, his lungs straining with the effort. Her hips swayed as she walked away. The princess stopped before the exit, placing a hand on the barrier and turning back to look at him. “I thought you’d want to forget it all. What with your . . .  _ devotion _ to the dear Lady Anneith.”

“Where is she?” The question was weak. He saw her smirk.

“Now, now, sweet Hellas. You ought to be asking other questions. Of yourself, of course, not me.” She stepped through the wall, her voice growing faint. “Guards! Bring him to the chamber.”

Hellas collapsed against the wall. 

It was her. 

It would always circle back to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	29. Twenty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cathal (Ca-hal)  
> Mantyx (man-TIX)  
> Oleandus (oh-lee-AN-dus)  
> Ravana (rah-vah-NA)
> 
> Winter break is giving me a small reprieve Getting this chapter up before I have to dive back into studying again.

The crack of the whip was something to behold. It cut through the silence much better than a knife ever could.  _ Sixty-two. _ Beside him, he heard the frustrated grunt of the Valg prince. Hellas grit his teeth.  _ Sixty-three. _ He could taste the metallic tang of blood coating his teeth, his lips, his tongue. 

“Again,” Mantyx’s gravelly voice bellowed from the door, a few yards away.  _ “Again.” _

The whip came down, and he could feel his teeth shattering under the pressure.  _ Sixty-four. _

Hellas lifted his head. He was situated in the middle of dingy room. Much more medieval compared to his cell, with graying bricks on all four sides. A door was guarded by five men to his left, flanking the king and his son as well. To the god’s right was a tiny window. Cast in dyed glass, throwing colored shadows over the floor. Red, blue, green. The light was dizzying, and he had to rest his head against the wooden pole. 

Hellas was jerked up by  _ sixty-five. _ But he did not scream, did not moan. They could whip him all they wanted—as they had for hours—but he would not yield.

“So this is your plan? Whip him until he behaves?” There was a jet of cool air somewhere in the room. His vision was scarlet, but he could see the moving outline of a junoesque figure standing in the doorway. 

“It has worked well before.” A voice closer to him spoke—one of the guards. “Previous prisoners—”

“—you speak out of turn,” Ravana snapped. “Or have you forgotten who your given princess is?”

A tense pause. “Forgive me, your Highness.”

“Daughter,” Mantyx’s voice turned silky. “You have concerns?”

“Simply ones that would have been raised already, if not for the fact that idiocy seems to be at work in the minds of those in charge here.”

“You overstep,  _ sister _ .” Oleandus’s cool voice barely disguised his anger. “I was given full command of the prisoner’s interrogation, not you. Unless, you are, of course, questioning our dear father?”

“Don’t be absurd, brother. I trust our father’s good judgement. He made no error in placing you in charge. It was  _ you _ that made the error in employing such . . . barbaric methods.” 

He hadn’t realized that the whipping had stopped. That it had all gone silent. Until the cracks were replaced by clicks of heels on brick. Closer, then closer, then closer. “And do you have an improved idea, dear Ravana?”

Smooth skin slipped under his chin, tilting it up. He was too weak to resist her. Blackest night met coldest gold. 

“I have a few.”

 

~*~

 

“You’re looking rather pale, Hellas. More veal?” 

He kept silent. 

“Or would you prefer more wine?” Ravana lifted a hand. A servant scampered away, ice bucket in hand. 

No response. 

The princess sighed. “I had hoped we would avoid this. That our mutual history would allow us to skip all of the pleasantries. The awkwardness.” Ravana raised her goblet to her lips, her eyebrows arched above the rim. “Or perhaps you’d like to relive it. You were always quite the skilled conversationalist.”

“This was your plan, then? To wine and dine me?” Hellas mirrored her, taking a sip of wine. The rest of his food lay untouched. “To fatten me up as a lamb is for slaughter?”

“But a lamb’s sole purpose is to be brought underneath the cleaver, is it not? You, my lord—” Ravana’s lips curled slightly “—are meant for something much greater.” 

“And pray tell, what is that thing?”

Ravana’s head tilted up, her eyes traveling to the dark, lacquered wood walls. “To be part of this court.  _ My _ court.”

“ _ Your _ court?” Hellas could have laughed. “Do you plan to unseat your father? To become Ravana the Usurper?”

She didn’t smile. An austerity had settled over her expression, her lips now set in a hard line. “And would that change things?” Her voice wavered.

Hellas smiled this time, cheeks straining with the extent of it. He leaned forward, close enough that he could see the miniscule shifts in her expression. Too small to be controlled nor intentional. “No.”

Ravana’s chair scratched the floor with a loud screech, nearly crashing into the wall as she stood suddenly. Her bejeweled fingers clutched the stem of her goblet tightly as she paced around the room. She ran her touch along the surface of the table, grip coming to squeeze one of his chair’s ears. The princess was so close that Hellas saw the rise and fall of her chest, felt the warmth radiating off of her. 

“Have I offended her Highness?”

“You are a prisoner,” Ravana rasped. “I can feel the pain rolling off of you, spindling through the slashes on your back. I can taste the exhaustion of your mind. But still, still,  _ still—” _ Her fist slammed on the table. Once, twice, thrice. Still, still, still. 

It matched the sound of his heartbeat. 

Hellas watched as her fingers curled around the edge of the table, her back now faced away from him. He watched as she straightened, a labored breath running through her. “But still you are unmoved.”

It was a different woman that turned back towards him. Color bloomed high on her cheeks. A curl fell from her coiffure. Her golden eyes were dulled, distant from their usual vividity. Hellas felt a chill run through him. Ravana looked almost like someone he knew.

Ravana let a little smile peek through. Jaded as it was. “Someone you knew?” She laughed. “Hellas, darling,” the princess leaned forward, perched on the edge of the table. He could see the scarlet swirl of the wine in her goblet, her ivory skin moving with every breath she took. “That girl never existed.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did she really not?” Hellas asked softly. Their breaths were one, their hearts beating in cursed time. 

Ravana’s eyes dropped to a speck of dust miles away before returning to his. “I am flattered.” She said. “It was the best façade I could conjure.” The princess smirked. “And it worked, did it not?”

He stared at her. “Too well,” the god replied. “But it was not me who was fooled in the end.”

Ravana opened her mouth as if to retaliate. But all that came out was, “Enough. Guards, take him to his cell.”

“Do you hate me, princess?” The guards hoisted him to his feet. The rough material of his tunic sliced against his wounds, but his attention was on her only. 

“With all that I am.” 

Hellas was one foot out the door. “Then it is my price to pay and mine alone.”

Silence. Then—“That girl, Hellas? That girl that you detest?”

The god turned, the guards allowing him some leeway. Ravana had one hand on the dinner table, her back to him once more. Candles illuminated her figure, casting her in shadow and light. She turned her head to the side, only half of her face visible. “She acted only based upon the actions of others.”

 

~*~

 

“And you do not wish to go to him?”

Silba’s shoes continued to click out the same incessant rhythm she had been performing for the past few hours. “Where would I even find him?” She stopped, both of her hands coming to grip the ears of a chair. Lumas was seated at the end of a long rectangular table, one where the gods convened at. Rarely, but now again and again. The goddess ran an agitated hand through her dark hair. “Lumas—”

“—you do not wish to find Hellas?” Farnor is slumped carelessly in his chair, flanking Lumas to the right. “You, of all people?”

“It is  _ Valg _ territory,” Lani’s silver hair shone in the light, twisted away from her face. The lines of her expression were hard, as dark as the dress that clung to her body. She was nightmare today. 

“I do not know, I do not  _ know.” _ Silba’s voice quavered, rising in volume by the word.

“Sit, Sister,” Cathal gestured to the seat beside him, his brows knit in kindness. 

She waved him off, raising a hand to her brow. She could not think, she could not speak, she could not even breathe, it seemed. 

“He has been away for too long. The spirits are anxious.” Farnor’s voice was cool. Out of all of them, he was the calmest one, not once flinching at the subject. Even Lumas had taken to fidgeting, his blue eyes darting from one sibling to another. 

“Obol has sent word?” The king asked. 

“He does not need to.” The war god’s voice turned acrid. “I see it myself, on my battlefields. The souls of my men do not dissipate as they should. Even now, there are places that stink of lost souls roaming the bloodied earth.”

“Cathal?”

The sea god nodded. “The underwater entrances to the Underworld are congested without Hellas. My scouts report that the peasants near them cry out each day for relief.” Cathal’s voice quieted. “They can find none.”

“And we cannot enter Mavros.” Lumas’s chair scraped against the parquet floors as he stood, bracing his palms against the surface of the table. 

“Why not?” Lani muttered. 

“Are you volunteering?” Asked Farnor sharply. Lani could not hold his gaze.

Silba lowered her eyes to the floor. Her brother, her most beloved brother—

Deep within her, she knew that he could not have been stopped. That he would have wasted away on the Island if he hadn’t slunk away to Mavros instead. But wasn’t he there, wasting away as well? And now these souls, their blood soaked into the battlefields but their sorrow on the gods’ hands. Silba wanted to cry out, scream and scream until her throat was hoarse. 

“So what do we do?” Cathal’s voice was still soft. 

“What can we do?” Lumas’s voice was dull. “We fight, and we lose, and we fight again until we win. Just as we did a lifetime ago.”

“Your Majesty!” The door burst open, revealing a harried looking messenger. “My lords. My ladies.” Hurried, messy bows. 

“Yes? What news?” Lumas still did not look up from the table. 

The messenger struggled to catch his breath. “Y—your Majesty. The boy has returned.”

“What  _ boy?” _ Farnor spat.

“The spy, my lord. Lord Hellas’s spy. The mortal boy.”

“It matters not who it is right now, what is the news?” Lani asked impatiently. 

The courier gasped for breath. “The Valg are in the mountains. They plan to make for the Coast of Abelard before the tides rise in the summer.” He smiled, giddiness uncontrollable. “My lord, my ladies. We know precisely where they are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a review and tell me what you thought!


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